Lachrymal Humidities

in memory of Ted Berrigan Lose a brother? Lose a pa? At the sound of the tone it will be exactly sayonara. Meet me in the lobby of Casa Purgatoria when it's Turkish bath hour.  We will sweat  out  whatever  the  fuck it is that's unclean and inside us, at least inside me.  Round and brown and getting cool. Vestigal  feeling in the monkey I cut off myself.  Having  stood beside the  catafalque  to  nominte  him for  heroism I did not expect a nom- ination  for  tragedy  to be so rapidly forthcoming. You saw as well as I  did  how  the  hot  afternoon  was  grateful  to  him for bequeathing himself  to  its  mysterious  finitude.  Dry  and  bright and breezy and the hours were honey.  The shadow of a fully leafed-out tree over our white  knuckles.  I  would  have  liked  to  have been holding beads to show how humble  and elated I felt.  I talked of farce as if it were life. Life itself seemed  more than ever  high hips in a  form-fitting sheath. I  can  be  restfully  subdued  by  the  sight  of  long  undulant  fingers, please  let  me  show you  my entire body!  Every time  you see me re- call  my  neck  sinews,  my  piano-string  forearm  tendons,  my pneu- matic  sexual flesh,  and  my mild and erotic  eyeballs—forget the shy- ness  about me  that  you can't understand.  You can easily read in my eyes  how  voluntary  my  fantasies are,  and how flattering they are to you. Body. B-o-d-y.  Ah, the bruises.  Later for laying flowers, says the body.  O  body,  O  tough  stuff,  O  body  capable of sleep.  I break  the shaft  of  my  spear  over  my  knee  and kiss a patch of concrete.  Then from  hands  and  knees  I rise  to my full height.