It wasn’t a phone call

But a man from administration

Who told me in the middle of a lecture

That my sister’s husband had been killed in Vietnam.

I had been lecturing on the contemporary novels

Of such authors as Barthelme, Chester Himes,

Ishmael Reed and Thomas Pynchon among others

While still thinking about the massacres at Kent State

At Jackson State, where the National Guard

Had slaughtered college students.

And with these images floating,

I could see my sister, Beverly,

Sitting there, wondering

What’s to become of her and her children

Now that her husband is dead.

It was with me, next to her, in Philadelphia,

Listening and nodding as she rambled on

About how she and her husband, Phillip, had met

When she was only 17 in D.C. when she had gone

To stay with our older sister, Doris.

And while sitting there with the shades drawn

And the lights down low — she talked about

What it was like to be married to someone

Who had been in the military for 20 years,

Traveling from base to base,

The times Phillip was gone

And she was left alone with the kids.

The times that she was pregnant –

The births of her seven kids

And how they had finally settled in Philadelphia,

Where Phillip had been born.

It was to be his last year in the military

But now this happened.

Our other sisters and brothers arrived on the

Day of the funeral and Beverly decided

She wanted a closed coffin.

She had been told by the army

That Phillip had died by falling off a bridge

But, Alan, my other brother-in-law,

Did not believe the Army.

He wanted to see the body, He kept grumbling

“But how do we know that Phillip’s in there?

How do we know the army didn’t make a mistake?

How do we know it isn’t someone else’s body in there?”

But Beverly never changed her mind.

And it was there at the gravesite, the coffin

Covered in Red, White and Blue, we all started

Sobbing trying to avoid each others eyes

And I thought about my sister and her loss,

The war in Vietnam

The protest against the war,

Those who had been drafted, those who refused to go

And fighting for something you didn’t believe in

And there she sat with her seven children, overcome

With emotion as they lured his remains into the grave.

And the only thought that stayed with me

Throughout these 30 years is, what good is it?

What did it all mean?

    It started with the drum.

The making of the drum

Hollowed tree

The goat skin.

From the drum came the rhythm

the dance    the song

the poetry.

Out of the rhythms of New York, the Big Apple as some used to call it, comes the sound of the drum beat covering all five Boroughs; Staten Island, Queens, The Bronx,. Brooklyn, and Manhattan.

From the rhythm to the sound

to the voice of the poet

you can hear and feel

the rhythm of the poem.

It is the apple which is the magnet, the magnet which draws to itself individuals from the four corners of the world. The poets in this collection, who are now entered into the rhythm of New York, are from “Elsewhere” but make their homes here.

And it is the rhythm of the streets, the crowds during rush hour, the ‘others’ who stand on corners in their neighborhoods getting into the latest debates, the shoppers practicing the religion of consumerism, their daily ritual, the cell phone cyborgs and I-Pod junkies, the night crawlers, the buses, the trucks, the taxis, the cars, the subways, the birds, all go to make up the rhythm of the city. In the far distance you can still hear the beating of the drum. Out of that rhythm comes the sound of these poets. New York City; it is what it is.

Selected from Matador Magazine, published in Madrid

Edited by Mireia Sentis

In the Ukraine

as if

Singing in the rain

There was ‘trane

John Coltrane

like

playing My Favorite Things

in the Ukraine –

As if again

in pain

beneath my window pane

Copyright stevecannon2005

Now

And 400 years ago

The English settled at Jamestown

And brought the honeybee

Along with their disease

And now

The honeybee is disappearing from American farmlands

And what do we do

Now

In probing

the deeper

mysteries

of the universe

the question and answer remains

whatever

floats your boat

but still the question is

who the hell is

whatever?

Big Al

Big Al is gone

Gone into ashes

But his spirit enlivens the cosmos

6/21/2005

Africa Asia

Asia Africa

Miles

Mingus

Monk

Who’s in the trunk?

or is it not?

Tigerwood in the box.

Laredo

Laredo

Laredo

Africa in Asia

Asia in America

America in Arabia

Indonesia

Maylasia

Euthinasia

In America, in Asia, in Africa, in Arabia

Neo Geo Geo Neo

YOYOYO

What does it matter

When nothing matters

When everything is in tatters

And scattered

Across the cosmos

every morning

when i awaken

i pray

for daid soles

lost in space

So she gives me beads of amber

not blood red garnets

for the heated love of a man

but cool yellow stones

for friendship, she says

Dependable like prayers

strung together like a rosary

never responding to touch

no matter how many Hail Marys

Hard rocks that bite

if I press too hard

but kiss me gently

if I finger her gently

Sometimes they catch the sun

fanning it into a flaming fire

beautiful and hot like her breath

when my palms are pressed up

against her making her beg

please… don’t… stop

please, don’t stop

pleasedon’tstop

And when the night comes

she goes home to her husband

cooking for him

laying down

for him

beds covered with white cool sheets

and as she lies

she remembers the day

smiling as he enters

feigning pleasure at his coming

Then she gives me

bloodless chips of earth

to wear around my neck

my albatross

a reminder

that stolen jewels

can never really be

displayed