oh man, annie

oh man, annie
are you walking?
here he comes
i can hear him talking.

he wore the blue shirt
had the white hat
he took the microphone
where the fat lady sat

a feather on her face
tapping the warehouse floor
he didn't need permission
to be breaking down her door

he was the cool cat
playing the piano
running up the stairs
the only way to go

a smooth criminal
smoking gun in his hand
jumping on the stage
with Annie and her band

they were dressed in red
hips shaking sexy air
nine pool balls rolling
moon walking everywhere

black & white lovers
dancing throughout the night
they heard him singing
say everything's alright

i hear him calling
so annie get your gun
grab your red jacket
your babys' on the run

oh man, annie
are you walking?

Dresden, February 13-15, 1945

he saw dead people
seated awkwardly in their streetcar,
unused destination tickets folded in laps,
forever lost in thought.

there were no secret military codes
littering the basement floor
where more burnt bodies were found
in early February, 1945.

an apartment bedroom became a tomb
when the old stone walls of a cultural center
without glass windows
collapsed under the defenseless German clouds.

it wasn't Slaughter House 5
where most human remains were seen
by those who went looking for answers,
but found only mountains of debris.

at an empty church near a smoking pile of books
where Vonnegut was told to load a small wagon
with a broken-down piano,
he heard a military plane flying low overhead.

a small group of hungry and frightened people wanted to shout,
but remained speechless, gazing skyward.

soon, they began to weep.

rachel, rachel

rachel, dear,

i wonder if that dress is appropriate?

and what is that smudge i see on your cheek?

you're not wearing any perfume, are you?

and your hair could be tied tighter.  let me help.

your friend will be here soon

so there's not a lot of time to change

into something more appropriate,

don't you agree?

and to wash your face,
don't you agree?

i can imagine your father, if he were alive,

having one of his fits if he could see you now.

are you still haunted by his memory?

yes, maybe if he hadn't died in this house,

but still,

maybe you wouldn't be so lonely if you would listen
to me
more often, rachel.

are you cold?

rachel, rachel.

don't be out too long.
it's not good for you,
don't you agree?

closing our book

no turn of the screw
straight ahead i could catch
the briefest sight of you

wearing your favorite red
it wasn't only what you said
that turned me blue

so what had i heard
when you flashed me a smile?
i tried to catch each word

running on fertile ground
it wasn't only what i found
that seemed absurd

you gave me that look
and a toss of your hair
but something else you took

meant more to me than life
i felt the stinging of your knife
closing our book

Auschwitz

Auschwitz on a sunny day
was stirred into activity
upon hearing
of Hitler's Berghof estate
in Bavaria
and the priceless art hanging
from the walls of his apartment
at the Chancellery in Berlin.
He tremendously enjoyed fresh
cut flowers and marble statues
of classically posed nudes,
demanding the presence of such
treasures throughout his living quarters.
But the powerful do live a lavish
home life, while their most
unfortunate subjects fall, choking on thousands
of pounds of deadly gas,

splintered bones underfoot.

Auschwitz on a sunny day!

There is no champagne in a gas chamber.  

No joy.  No flute.

The candelabra, having been lit, was unseen
as workers swept the floor of dust
where the young girl's heart was found
burned within her scorched shirt.

Whistler's mother

If the sitter
enjoys a moral position
but her chair is cushioned
with pictures of Billy Graham
as a young, exciting power seeker,
and the Vatican City in Rome with a current Pope or several
dozen of them hangs black framed from a
nearby wall from where Muhammad with his entourage of Virgins
can be seen heading to Mecca with his bloody spoils;
while the Wailing Wall of Jerusalem sits in stony countenance
near perfectly formed pyramids in the desert heat, all
easily seen from her imprisoning chair which will not rock,
can she remain comfortably numb?

Would she still desire that thin white wafer
placed lovingly inside her mouth once
each month of a year
while kneeling before her believed Truth
if it were not True?

Did she think she would not die?

And you will die, too.

We're all dying, in our own way.

Most are very afraid.

A few, not at all.

The portrait of Whistler's mother
by Whistler
did not require him to decipher any such enigma.

As a result, he experienced fewer difficulties.

on the beach (1959)

if you're along the California coast
and once slept on Maverick Beach
just beyond the high tide line
under a black sky with twinkling stars,
as the strong moon tugged at your nerve,
you must know it's north of San Francisco
south of the Columbia River.

naturally there are camp fires kept active
with collected drift wood as the guitar players
congregate, listening to the ocean surf
and the sound of flutes and drums
chasing organized religion back to the frightened city.

a bottle or two is passed.  marijuana.

sparks in the air spiral near a face, disappear.  what else?

a random parking of vehicles, sleeping bags
with out-of-state plates, seekers of alternative
universes, and a bit of food held by inquisitive
hands sporting a grateful smile.

a question falls into focus.

meditation on the beach.

a fine wind blowing on the beach.

on the beach.  on the beach.  on the beach.

simple
number 623 is stenciled in white on the conning tower of a lone submarine
diving into the sea by the written direction of the Lord Mayor of Melbourne, Australia,
not far from the deserted roadways of his city center.

empty shadows climb the corporate ladder, which leans soundless
against one wall of illusion.

The nearby trolley tracks are empty, while radiation of a lethal type
speeds full steam ahead, entering the station without noticing time.

the stopped clock reads midnight.

A sign by the cement steps:  "THERE IS STILL TIME, BROTHER."

(1959)

ever green

when the Earth was still a child
we ran into our meadow feeling wild

there in the center on the grass
knowing it would never last
a finest line of ever green
but what exactly did it mean?

you wanted me to love you
i didn't know what to do
i heard your anguished call
but how exactly did you fall?

the door cried when you went away
but what was i to say?
no one could tell me how to proceed
i'm still wondering what it is you need

and shadows falling on my face at night
so i couldn't see the light
now echos keep repeating inside my head
i am remembering all that you said

and so to love you without being near
why is it i can't be clear?
a finest line of ever green
but what exactly did it mean?

a January day

on an unfamiliar trail
of brown single track

rocks and uneven ground

brittle leaves and sticks of
dying wood scattered like
corpses on the forest battlefield

different sizes of memory
changing degrees of anticipation
two heart beats and a foot fall forward

it was necessary to walk carefully

all i saw
was an old outhouse
with a damaged
plastic
unpainted
toilet lid
missing a hinge on the left side

&

an even older picnic table
with a top surface of broken

promises
unpainted
with two attached benches
missing people
who might have been slumped nearby.

it was a January day without
a deep chill
while the sun hung low over the
Eastern White Pines.

i passed the short term camp
and found a narrow clear cold
spring
to cross over.

looking beyond the slope,

i saw hikers climbing a nearby hill
backpacks
with their food
threatening to push them over

one paused to wave, holding his
hand aloft for a long moment,
sure to restart but not in a hurry

there was no wind
no unnatural sound
nothing out of place

and a raptor circling somewhere must have known.

i peed by a skinny tree, far from the outhouse,

but the tree was unmoved
the outhouse yet unpainted.

Chair with Peaches (1919)

the chair was near the altar
when i approached with my new idea.

i saw the three peaches
on their white plate
sitting on the French chair
near the sinuous wallpaper
and the blue space.

but the chair was unfamiliar to me
and my point of view.

moving forward, i held one peach
and took a single bite.

and as far as chairs were concerned,
i had made a choice.

we were forever changed.

Death of a salesman

The death of a salesman
didn't come easily,
and it wasn't until i saw my mail
that i heard the thump
of his body being dropped to the floor.

I could have played A Day in the Life
and read the news today
a thousand times to fill the hole in my heart,

but still, the pain would have persisted.

Joan Didion cringed, watching me on my power chair
twist and shout, completely anxious.

You see, without the salesman, i am lost.

She was lost, too.

And being lost in our world full of sign posts
is not a good thing.

So now, no one even comes to visit without an invitation,

while we sit together smoking our cigarettes, blowing pathos
at each other.

She asks me what we should do between class
and i remind her it was pass or fail.

I heard her say she wanted to fail.

The Blue Owl

The Blue Owl could not tell her creator
how she tried to fly at night,
but failed to get his price.

The task to tell the master
was left to a humorous Matisse,
who, without reticence,
spilled the news obliquely.

800,00 francs might seem a lot,
but it was a very large canvas
and expected to gain an even bigger price.

Being emotionally insecure,
Picasso was in constant need of
reassurance.

So,
Matisse wrote that the beautiful blue
of the bird actually looked wildly black
under the artificial light of the exhibit.

That was his explanation for the smaller sum.

And birds in flight symbolize freedom.

They both loved birds.

Picasso loved money, too.

much more than the birds.