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Miami Heart
In a long text, on live tv, in an amphitheater, in the soil, after the post-moderns, after it is still proven you can get a smile out of a pretty girl, after the meta-ritual lectures, after the flock to further awareness bends “south,” and Heinz switches to plastic squeeze bottles, as one flies into St. Louis listening to Lorca’s “Luna, luna, luna...,” beyond Anacin time, after, God help us, the dishwasher is emptied again, and Miss America, Miss Mississippi, reveals she has entered 100 pageants since age six, Packer’s ball, first down after a fumble, the corn detassled, the assembly of enthusiasms awakened, and we meet in a car by the river not not kissing, considering making love, visiting Jerusalem, the awful daily knowledge we have to die in a hospital on the sixth floor, in a lecture, on live tv, or in an amphitheater at half-time, at one’s parents’ condo, over pasta, in a strange relative’s arms, in debt, along the coast, staring at a lighthouse, the heart bumping, bumping the old pebble up the old spine, a squirrel scared up a sycamore by an infant, along this stench of humility, along that highway of come, charge card in hand, I shall give my time freely and the more I dissemble the more I resemble and the more I order the more I reveal I hide, the better, the faster I sleep the more I remember to go elsewhere, a movie, excuse me, now I must whisper not to disturb the patrons, now I must drive, now park, tramp to the edge of the world, roughness, ferocity, cannibalism, bite, chew, transmogrify, inside the lungs the little revolutionaries, between the thighs the reflex it’s too this, it’s too that, it’s not enough, similarly, and more particularly, it’s raw twice over, it’s the imagination draining its husks, left-handed, because comparison is motive, which is why one writes with one’s desire.
Jane Miller
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:hi:
RL
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