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.

birds on fire

mountain view
anxious eye blue
symbol avenue
dryness and thirst
so i stare
heated desert air
insects everywhere
the birds are on fire
no water
random slaughter
Uncle Sam's daughter
but no female rain
methane cloud
arctic bubbles loud
the funeral shroud
sand like glass explodes
my running feet
bleeding at high tide.

Passion pit

simple-minded faeries
facing an autumn afternoon
as quiet as ephemeral
but brilliant like the moon

where riot streets grow soundless
angry rebellions enter sight
Oh! an ice cream truck is singing
i think i'll take a bite

that reverend has ascended
wooden crosses top his hill
sharp armor slicing pathways
a legendary thrill

His rock still moves by dreaming
white garments pure and clean
some local girls were hungry
they loved what they had seen

simple-minded faeries
facing a winter afternoon
as subtle as ephemeral
but brilliant like the moon

Dora

Dora had the body

but
with heated breath on her camera lens,
her smile like an enigma
faded

when Pablo found Francois
visiting his studio
wearing a youthful dress.

on his scenic Paris rooftop
he saw her swelling chest
with his artistic eyes and began
to paint a dream.

she noticed his hungry face redden
but did not blush
nor squirm

nor sympathize
nor encourage his grasp.

they soon became lovers.

eventually, she wrote a book about
life with the great master
detailing his clever approach
to color,
to his love of the classic bull fight,
and himself.

but Dora had the body

and with dark eyes,

abundant mystery in depth,
her Spanish accent on the Rue de Savoie
framed lonely pictures
which only she
could see.

in Paradise

in Paradise
i fell into the blackest hole
and it was killing me
tugging at my soul
machine gunning the telephone
when i tried to take your call
there are so many lovers
i can't possibly love them all
in Paradise

in Paradise
i heard the restless lion roar
and it was scaring me
clawing at my door
insisting everything was fine
when i tried to have a say
there are so many mysteries
i can't possibly find my way
in Paradise

in Paradise
i felt a chill invade the air
and it was freezing me
deepening my despair
spreading ice on the avenue
where i tried to maintain pace
there are so many strangers
i can't possibly see your face
in Paradise

another dance

she came
soft to me
with just one more tap
of her tambourine
and hiding under covers
i was never sure what i had just seen
while her words
bringing rain
gave each flower one more reason to smile
and the gardener pulling weeds
was tempted to stay just a little while
for her voice
like an angel
speaking deep inside my cave
came looking for anything
she felt that she could save
but that was then
and this is now
i know
i should figure it out somehow
the more i look
the less i can see
she offered the sun
but all i could find was the shadow of a tree
so i climbed to the top of the moon
and felt so good i didn't want to come down
anytime too soon
swaying
in a trance
she came to me and asked for another dance
swaying
in the breeze
and i said please

my chair

the small curly white ones,
feathers dusting the air
like enlightened artists from an
underground movement,
played colorfully in their coop

and cooed.

in that same way i was welcomed
onto a chair in front of a mirror
where no date was etched on the
hard glass.

and sitting by the flower,

i reached out to their wired cage and
found the door handle easy to open.

the birds saw the mirror, too, but somehow
were not distracted and soon
took flight.

in their motion, a freedom my chair could not know.

happy hour

at the cafe
when you came out to play

we all waited to hear you say
things would be different today

but small glasses full of life
a simple spoon and a desperate knife

one brown bag and happy hour
one sweet sun and soaking shower

on the menu by the kitchen sink
a sleeveless arm refused to think

a ruby orange cantaloupe
with stabbing little rays of hope

amazing pieces of mild despair
disguised themselves in heated air

closing time on Junk Avenue
in deepest dark i can imagine you

nervous people speeding by
none slow enough to hear you cry

in early morning happy hours
they cover you with passing flowers

at the cafe
when you came out to play

we all waited to hear you say
things would be different today

to make you mine

when i saw you walk in
and heard the door close

just that quickly i forgot

i tried i suppose

but couldn't even remember
if today was the fifth of December?

or a moment out of time
and i could wear it
to make you mine.

the roads kept leading here
i was pushed along

and when i saw you smiling

i began to sing this song

but couldn't even remember
if today was the fifth of December?

or a moment out of time
and i could wear it
to make you mine.

The World

"i don't know, man," he quietly said
while removing the smoking cigarette
from his tired mouth.

"they were here one minute, then they were gone,
like they just disappeared and it's freaky;
this whole thing is fucked up."

light and shadows played on his face as he
shifted his eyes, looking away, yet continuing to talk.

i don't remember which sound distracted me from
his presence, but something tugged at me and i
turned.

my curiosity about the war seemed to center on
the notion that men struck and maintained friendships
that i was priviledged to witness between 1969 and
1971, all the while consumed inside the belly of a beast
which could kill them with a relentless passion or
as an idle afterthought.

he shouted
"i'm already in Hell, man, so there's nothing else these
fuckers can do to me, right?" as i walked
back
to The
World.

Luisa Casati

Venice never closes!!
Casati never stops her flamboyant dance,
and Rome has monuments and artists in
narrow alleyways full of hope.

My broken camera captured her movements
in orange hair with twisted curls in front
of the ruins of antiquity, where her dark eyes
sat on the marbled shoulder of Hercules.

This gay Italian city watched her
in Medusa dress, stroll with jeweled leash
leading two borzois, one black, one white,
to an audience with the Pope,
but he was busy playing bridge.

Upon watching her pass, I went straight to my house,
hoping for an invitation to her dinner party, but it arrived
sixty years too late.

Posing on her polar-bearskin rug
as others took siestas during the renaissance,
she heard The Volga Boat Song and on the first playing
noticed a bold red circle with an empty center
smeared on the title page.

It was Picasso pimping for the Bolshevik
uprising against the Tsar, dabbling in paint,
while his friend Stravinsky scored that tune for
the Ballets Russes, where Olga played a part.

Later in Paris, the largest cloud in the world
sat on the waterfront near Montmartre
where tourists spent their day with wine
and local cheeses, learning French.

Nearby, Casati's Palais Rose was built of red marble
and was naked except for images of herself,
many tall and skinny.

If she were insane, as rumored, she would have had more than
two arms smelling of incense and a necklace
of love bites underneath her river of pearls.

She died in London on June 1, 1957, many years
after Shakespeare, and is buried at Brompton Cemetery
with a taxidermed Pekinese dog
resting at her feet.

Tet (February 1,1968)

Johnson shook my hand
with his sneaky Texas smile
and hissed me off to a land war
in a small Asian country where
there was no home front and US Marines
killed everything they could.

My screen door wasn't able to keep
the bugs from escaping when the bombs
began to fall and huge explosions
filled the humid air with their death
march and the tides of the South
China Sea seemed so far away.

"Born to kill," he said before he died in a
fast ambush with a slow M16 still warm underneath
his young hand as the music from the helicopter blades
reminded him of the end when an impulse
from a single cerebral nerve fired a last burst.

The embassy compound in Saigon was overrun and
microphones appeared to interview the MPs wearing
flack jackets pointing at the Stars and Stripes where moments
before a liberation flag hung with smoke in the indifferent air.

Nearby the National Chief of Police held his revolver to the head of
a man in a plaid shirt wearing nice navy blue shorts but
no shoes and the bottom of each foot was black when the bullet
punched a hole in his head just before the
spurt of red blood stained the street when he fell without
a trial and without a sound.  Eddie Adams working for
the Associated Press received a Pulitzer Prize
for his photograph of this frozen moment, which he never forgot.

General William Westmoreland wore a braided military cap and gave
encouraging reports while bodies were still being pulled from
the rotting paddy soil.

On time, the jungle animals chattered at and scolded the French and American
soldiers, carrying their shoulder fired weapons onto the pages
of the New York Times, walking over a street without joy,
looking in wonder at a land they could not own.

Dead babies were seen on white sand beaches.

Their black bodies were burned beyond recognition.

Skeletons walked from an open fire without expression.

Shadows failed to hide their pain.

bake me a pie

she had no money when
she came to my door

acting friendly

she told me she was poor

but on her arms were bracelets
a shine in her eye

smiling brightly

she would bake me a pie

and in my kitchen was a spoon
and a pot

steaming visions

she told me she was hot

and the television channel
was a dud

playing dirty

she covered me in mud

while she looked good
and was everything i dreamed

breathing deeply
it wasn't what it seemed

with my rifle and
camouflage underwear

hunting trouble

she filled me full of air