Saturday, July 09, 2016


Dear friend of ferment, 
who unearths the worms 

that enrich this blissful human soil, 
promising the end of eternal roil:

I embrace you, dear shadow,
my revelatory friend;

dear suicidal impulse; today
I dream of the parapets above

A la Vielle Russie, and
of splattering near the Plaza

where Woody Allen wooed young girls,
leaving a bit of me

on the Strand Bookstand,
near the park and the seals —

but this is too vibrant and real.

Better to find myself alone

in a porcelain tub

with chamomile bath oil
(as if I needed to be calm;

there is eternity for that),
listening to Verdi’s Requiem,

holding a razor, or better still,
to poison myself with small

scored pills, avoiding arsenic
and the Bovary traps

of indigestion, detection;
best with caplets, red carafes

of wine or Guinness brew —
(who wouldn’t want to quaff a few?)
            What catharsis there is in the dive,
            the gesture, the infinite jest,

the slash, the brush (its own fire),
the dance with death?

Ah, this: as I flirt, you draw near,
chingon to my chingada

bite my ear, stop my breath—
who else could do that?

Te quiero, my Mescal, my absinthe,
my blue cyanosing corps, my Mayakovsky,

my you. . .

Was this a mistake? Is it too late . . . ?
You bite my ear, take up my rear, whisper:

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