Perhaps you too, upon seeing Giacometti’s “Walking Man,”will run from the National Gallery of Art holleringinto the Potomac, will stripoff your shirt—as you splash, the gulls willtoss your pants back and forthmaking a gameof what cannotbe eaten.Perhaps you too have an impolite need to drink with the long-legged statue, but nobeverages are allowed in the gallery & even Giacometti’s“Walking Man” is afraid of the guard & wisheshim bird droppings in his hair.Between the flashes of tourist cameras, Isee it: Giacometti’s “Walking Man” isa politicaldeclaration—A public lectureon how people’ssouls are unbandaged and howwe will die of them.The air is raw with joy.Sit, heart, restfrom the soul’s south-westWhy so much life?I don’t know what to do with less!I have given up all I haveto the giver of bread and breath.Outside, Washington DCis a theater where police vans play the role of police vansand senators pretend to be senatorsa taxi makes a city more a cityand boys still don’t read except for what is written on women’s t-shirts.At 10 am, the gallery opens and you zigzag betweenour nation’s most important people parading between importantpaintings. Someone’scamera flashes—a politicianhurries by as if he wereGiacometti’s “Walking Man”but he looks more like a well punchedbus ticket.Why so much life?I don’t know what to do with lessI have given up all I have.When I die,find me at the National Gallery of ArtI’ll be flat on the floorin front of Giacometti’s “Walking Man”a little flask of lemon vodka in my pocketI want the last joy of putting my cheekto the stone floorof whisperingyou in whom I do not believe, hello.