the widower on the roof

the widower on the roof

was what the bitchy boys called him:
it was fun to hear their laughs.

he was terrified of typhoid, it was true,
and kept his distance from a lover
alone on a death bed, who would
soon die with no one by his side.

but Cocteau held no illusions about being brave
and fled!

by being in Monte Carlo, he missed the funeral
which was talked about later as being
a service en blanc: white eyes seeing everything
in white, including the white horses hired to pull the hearse.

the young man who died was a poet, poetically speaking.

his sorrowing fans followed the horses in a freezing rain.

wet and cold behind the black band they moved

to their lively music,

all the way to the white cemetery
where white flowers
were piled neatly upon a white coffin
placed carefully next to a freshly-dug white hole.

he'd be the breeze

sitting with the things

i came in with,

putting all my eggs in a basket

and hunkering down,

there are chickadees in the tree

i call home.

one bird grabbed a sunflower seed.

a squirrel sat enviously,

devouring sunlight.

there was a mud puddle where

snow should have been.

the chimes sang with the breeze.

i remembered the song from my youth.

my only brother called,

but i didn't hear him:

he has no voice.

if he were a chickadee,

he'd be sounding off all the time,

especially when he was hungry.

if he were a chime,

he'd be the breeze.

Edgar Allan Poe

of course a horse with no name

came into view:

I was reading the morning paper

after eating breakfast and tying my reluctant shoe.

in the background played a Johnny Cash song

about a Folsom Prison Blue

and the ring of fire burning red.

see, I remember climbing out of bed

and hearing my golden-haired dog cough

and the table top alarm going off.

well, what's it all about?

I heard a voice like Janis Joplin shout!!

she was wearing a string of pearly beads,

complaining of her urgent needs,

but no stick up artist was waiting nearby.

no overhead blue bird sky.

no shooting star,

but a Sunday night TV and a Mercedes car

both went speeding past.

I wondered if my coffee would last

longer than these damn memories flooding in from my past?

what time will the holding company begin holding me

in its' arms with a cup of hot organic green tea?

in my mind, there's a burning cigarette filled with nicotine and memories of smoke,

laughing at a stupid comment which I took to be a joke

but Edgar Allan Poe didn't know which way to go,

either; so like a rolling stone,

we both hoped to be alone

gazing at eternity.

but there's never nothing new to say

I am getting older

but feeling much bolder

than I ever did before

keeping time with one finger

knowing I can't afford to linger

stepping down on the hardwood floor

dreaming of all my lovers

buried underneath their sweet covers

with the stars overhead shining bright

while I'm sliding into tomorrow

with no attachment to sorrow

letting go with all of my might

and the few stories I still recite

keep me up throughout the night

but there's never nothing new to say

I've been home and strayed afar

drove a beat up blue Chevrolet car

that needed some work but just liked to play

illusion was my favorite highway

lit a lonely candle for my latest birthday

but there's never nothing new to say

wishing I held more aces of spades

before everything I can clearly see fades

extinguishing the light of my solitary day

I am getting older

but feeling much bolder

than I ever felt before

keeping time with one finger

knowing I can't afford to linger

stepping down on the hardwood floor

dreaming of all my lovers

buried underneath their sweet covers

with the stars overhead shining bright

while I'm sliding into tomorrow

with no attachment to sorrow

letting go with all of my might

and the few stories I still recite

keep me up throughout the night

but there's never nothing new to say

I've been home and strayed afar

drove a beat up blue Chevrolet car

that needed some work but just liked to play

illusion was my favorite highway

lit a lonely candle for my latest birthday

but there's never nothing new to say.

Apollinaire's death

the Seated Man might have been concealed,
yet his presence was felt
in the rough texture of a simple paradox:

Picasso's self-portrait, another deep enigma, or both.

but the simple seat had barely a leg or two, 
and a hat or none at all.

his flat presence like a carpenter's square
was full of angles and the sharp thin lines of construction.

many faces or none?

working at Montrouge just before 1919,
the chair master tossed his cubes onto the icy white.

He,  the ultimate magician
with a proud brow and curving smile,
spoke to his friend before the coughing
death in a Paris apartment where poets came to pray.

It was 202, boulevard Saint-Germain-des-Pres at 5PM
when the final silence descended, pulling the unfinished copy
over Apollinaire's head.

He was 38 when he died.

Breton was already at his door, defending the avant-garde.

Cocteau was already on his way out, although he didn't know it.

and upon feeling the sad news when a widow's black veil
touched his cheek, Picasso went to his bathroom mirror and
began to draw.

he drew a lonely man.

nothing was as synthetic as it seemed.

Pictures At An Exhibition

I heard Pictures at an Exhibition: 

no price was charged 

or admission ticket required

no stub 

or membership rules posted. 

i felt the moving mystery!

it gathered all the straining ears

along a horned path 

with vibrating strings 

playing the famous Mussorgsky song in four parts 

of ethereal lighter-than-air 

loudness 

and diminishing softly,

the tidal wave moodily sweeping water spray sound

around

& then a quick flair for the flamboyant:

the kettle drum and French horn; 

keys with flutes attached, 

and a sustained trombone blast and some elfish piccolos; 

a large section of bass, deeply humming in tune. 

incessant rock knock and pound surround,

The Kingdom

of finest woven lace 

weaving notes of orchestral tempest. 

and those brilliant escaping images, 

fleeing from practiced instruments,

kept moodily circling 

with fingers of humankind grandly being toyed about.

Salvadore and Gala Dali

a razor sliced into an eyeball
and

blood came rushing out:
his boyfriend was the target
& several neighbors' heard him shout!

into his celebrated strangeness,
a unique woman appeared:
her pleasure, a Spanish nightmare,
much crazier than he feared.

while painting on a canvas,
hands melting over time,
they wrapped their arms in questions,
answering sublime.

dancing with Surrealists,
caution spinning in the air,
they climbed upward toward delirium
and found a future there.

the kiss of Tosca!

this is the kiss of Tosca!

they were all dead by 3 o'clock on a fine afternoon 

no one expected so many to be gone so soon 

in the early dawn children at breakfast a mother busy with her knife in hand: 

silent Enola Gay high above in her silver chariot drunk on hot jazz 

heavenly wine stored deep inside her belly 

her horses pulling onward into the great wide open 

Morta listened for a cry from the singing diva 

wailing above the home of 100,000 deaths like Roosevelt

fatherly in his easy chair

rationalizing

behind a somber podium 

the great white hall silent behind his back 

his skinny hard tires black 

and rolling 

towards the Manhattan Project not in New York City anymore

then Truman with his hand on the pen 

writing the white lie which would open the box of hell 

and offer howling ghosts 

screaming in full throat 

in mushroom cloudy smoke

the balled fist reaching ever upwards

hot exhaust on the crisp desert air 

Trinity 

like a horrible nightmare 

burning every migrating butterfly into a dream shadow

blooming cactus flowers falling to desert sand

the barbs remaining sharp

and ashes like dusty tears  

and the experimental little boy of all big bombs falling indiscriminate 

targeting and tumbling and preparing to explode over a huddled mass

soft people awake or asleep, restless or comforted

their suddenly revealed skeletons boiled and basted and bombed 

the troubled disbelief 

a sudden cry

thinking the unthinkable 

and to Gods or spirits they called and begged in anguished Japanese, 

moaned on the currents of flaming air

staggering beyond the city limits

past the graves of dead gardens,

what? 

why did we have to die? great Earth were we not great, too? 

will there be a second chance? any chance? 

what do i do? 

am i the butterfly or the flower? 

or a passing memory or a missing hour?

Roosevelt, Churchill, Stalin

Roosevelt, Churchill, Stalin,

Potsdam, Yalta, Tokyo and Berlin 

South Korea and Mao and for the other guys somehow 

this is important 

with the atomic bomb & with the Marshall Plan 

and the German wall

before the fall 

Seoul overrun by Kim with a quick plan for victory to Pusan 

foiled

& the Great March forward somehow spoiled 

by stiff US resistance and blood and guts and honor

and then Truman, McArthur and the Yalu 

long after Hiroshima & Nagasaki but who really knew 

what Eisenhower was about to reveal?

yes, the military industrial complex was designed to steal 

what even the CIA didn't understand 

or the KGB as they used to say 

back in the Cold War day 

alongside Fidel Castro (but now he's dead, too) as is the Shah

and Ayatollah Khomeini,

who didn't understand containment so said let the revolution begin 

with Iran 

and Venezuela and Hezbollah 

the oil flows spelled Mister Moolah in a brave new world 

with Huxley golf courses with Lucy in the sky and 

the fervent Taliban who hate women, 

who want control more than sex. 

Man is the new T-Rex!

not the ladies in flames or whatever else remains 

beyond Marines in central Baghdad or the Chinese in Senegal 

they're unlucky enough to want it all: 

prayer flags flutter in a Himalayan wind;

the soul of Tibet, the Dalai Lama, without a safe bed

in his native-born country said, 

Peace on Earth (at the very least) 

save us from this killing beast!

Putin readjusted his tie

it's no laughing matter:

Russians are everywhere,
as crazy as the Mad Hatter
but not nearly as much fun!

at the pinnacle of his power 
& capitalizing on his Olympic success,
Putin decided that very hour
it was time for his very own Gold medal.

so, he lit a big victory cigar,
& took a deep Stalin-style grip 

on the bare throat 

of the Russian military machine.

he determined to make it an instant media star
inside of the modern day Crimea.

he personally did not invade

(he was too preoccupied with his Italian tailors),

but his soldiers stood unmarked and masked
on the territory of Ukraine 

on a special operation,
while he choreographed their dance.

when he learned of his success,
he readjusted his tie,
readied himself for international phone calls,

but as soon as he spoke the first word, it was a lie!

it's what he does for a living.

Kurt Vonnegut

On a snowy night mid-December,
Kurt Vonnegut
climbed into my room
with heavy heart and a deep sigh.
i was sitting on my folding chair,
close to a wood fire,
watching my empty cup.
i had expected him before seven,
and it was now eleven,
but his mustache told me he was
running late.
he said he had been trapped inside a woman's wall
where there is usually no escape,
unless one is an author
with a quick wit and an even quicker pen.
he settled easily on the floor,
and turned to face me before he spoke.
his first words softly whispered were
"Hocus Pocus."
his white hands were cautiously folded in prayer.
i noticed a small atomic bomb on one index finger.
i told him i dreamed of time travel.
he wished me good luck,
no matter how bad things got.
i asked him about his wounded knee,
since i saw him limp.
he told me about Dresden,
and in a voice filled with ghosts,
said "It was a crematorium."
we both fell silent.

i watched Hamlet

i watched Hamlet. 

before his death he wondered how to be or not to be! 

Claudius killed Hamlet's father, 

then he married the widowed mother, ex-wife of his brother. 

and i wondered if there were no other plots possible for Shakespeare?

or did all these events appear clearly delineated as he was walking along the Avon river?

later, i watched the Dali Lama announce he would resign,

take up writing stage plays in a well-worn orange robe with his baby smile.

he wondered aloud if he could lock himself away in his private room for days on end,

crafting a human interest fable on his family heirloom table?

he said he had an initial story idea about a maid named Mable who wears a small white apron, serves a human skull on a small white tray for her employer named Hamlet, but on the very first rehearsal day, Hamlet dies tragically after a brief sword fight.

the maid, according to the Lama, eventually needs to serve herself or not herself.

But, no!  That wouldn't do.

so, the Dali Lama wondered aloud about running for President of the United States during which time he'd chase feral dogs around the Lincoln Memorial during a campaign stop.

Lincoln wouldn't mind, he said.

he also said he heard in his sleep the dogs of war crying Havoc! 

in his dream, an old gravedigger dropped a noisy shovel while burying Ophelia in nearby Arlington National Cemetery.

everyone nearby stopped to pray except for the Lama, 

who couldn't hear the eulogy and what they might have to say or not to say!

it's a Shakespeare thing, said the Lama, imagining a walk along the Avon river.

it's been awhile

it's been awhile

long faces in the night

an occasional smile

and it's almost summer

the playground is empty

just another bummer

there's no one in the alley

but mud flows in the street

a Lily of the Valley

keeping up with her beat

la la la la humming

fast forward drumming

guitar players strumming

who's that i hear a'coming?

it's a sweeper:

he's a real grim reaper!

la la la la humming

la la la la humming

where has that decade gone?

millions of hippies on the lawn

smoke fills the air

Ohio State University there

down by the corner

above the tree line

the last forest

no longer doing fine

toe tapping time

looking for a friend of mine

and here comes Sweet Jane

the heavy ball and chain

holding her back

just like Tom Thumb blues

for a fateful encore

there's so much more

heartbreak

artificial icing on the birthday cake

no, nothing fake

waiting on the corner

like a funeral mourner

holding flowers and a loaded gun

waiting for the high noon sun

it's been awhile

long faces in the night

an occasional smile

and it's almost summer

the playground is empty

just another bummer

there's no one in the alley

but mud flows in the street

a Lily of the Valley

keeping up with her beat

la la la la humming

fast forward drumming

guitar players strumming

who's that i hear a'coming?

it's a sweeper:

he's a real grim reaper!

la la la la humming

la la la la humming

Waldman and Ginsberg

Anne, I wonder where you are?

Last I heard
You were in Colorado as an artistic director,

Teaching especially creative writing.
It's where young people watch your every move,
Take notes.  Play notes.  Become notes.
They love being near the mountains.
I knew Allen, your very gracious friend Allen, visited several times and talked to a group of listeners.
Many in attendance would dance and sing Buddhist songs, humming in a
Spiritual way to center themselves inside the Universe.
You were much younger at that time, almost fully covered
With beads and bangles and hair.
Allen had lots of hair then, too.
He has since died, while you travel onward.
Your creative writers know the score:
They allow their thoughts often to have an
Easterly drift, even to New York City.
Allen loved that city, even when it tried to beat him down.
He talked to the sidewalks with his feet and used his eyes to scrub

The worldly windshield.

His heart was open as he spoke, driven with inspiration.
I can sometimes hear him call your name!
I wonder why you don't write him more often?