—Then we die. I hang my head, I do. A German woman, nameless even when I see her photographs, but I'd eat and walk, sleep and swim in her italienische Welt of mid-century women. (Ginsberg has Corso eating grapes in Paris, head turned, posed or not; et puis nous sommes Kerouac and Cassaday mugging dans la village Est—) And then the world of Bruce Weber— but I'd be homosexual; the women would be in forms of undress, beautiful and I'd have no reason to touch them though—turn the page, we are laying pubis to same, nipple to same, legs amongst each other and arms, a different anatomy— so there's home inside a woman, or hope. I've always wanted to be photographed in Myrtle Beach. Night, a lawn chair, in an open shirt, bonfire with a woman over me faces cropped from the scene, my fingers up the outsides of her thighs and admirers. __ I typed up some stuff about physics, biopoetics, marketing strategies and art history. Then it occurred to me that the most important thing about the poem is the image at the end. At the time I wrote the poem, that's all I was trying to get to. |