John Godfrey

 

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.

John Godfrey, "Lachrymal Humidities" from The City Keeps.  C