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The Blood in the CactusHis heart, large as the Andes.His riff heart, his perfect pitch heart. His pierced by an arrow red beans and rice heart. His black- eyed peas heart, his Andalusian heart. his wanting to play tenor saxophone heart. His piano keys heart. His never practicing enough, his compassion wrapped in gold leaf heart. His environs of New York City heart, his bachelor heart. His recently married heart, his Poems from the Japanese, translated by Rexroth heart. His bone-to-pick heart, his taking me to Allen Ginsberg heart. His born with a moustache heart, his running to fatness. My temperament like a cactus, my love aiming toward him like a cactus. My under-wire bra like a cactus, my desire for enlightenment like a solitary upper Sonoran saguaro. My high maintenance like boarding a high strung Arabian. My ambush like a western posse, my seemingly insignificant glance like a cactus. My putting his hand on my breast. My pincushion nerves like cactus spines. The way I imposed. My posture as I left him in 1989, the last glance and the last works from the Japanese, concept of beauty, Wabi and Sabi, rust and reverb. The cactus spines threaten stigmata, so Catholic and he was a Jew. His marriage so late and so woefully late, like the final spine. His obituary in The New York Times folded to make an origami heart. Heart of newsprint. I cannot find the thirst of how I loved him. His death is post-modern, conceptual. Jazz I can barely make out. The letter from Europe thought I was too serious. He disdained the petty. The words "rare" and "fine" on a condolence card do not amplify the heart. Love notes when I was with another, retreat when we were alone. I loved him till I bedded his friends. I cannot cannot cannot beat with the loss. I file obituaries in the old love file, white envelope with the name of a heart. An ersatz burial, a paper coffin and a paper hearse. |
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Issue #17, September, 2000 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.