Miguel Murphy


Reinaldo

A code for help, 

The Flower Book— 

please

send, as soon as possible. . . .

 

Confiscated, 

another émigré 

“dissident”

novel under a boulder

 

before it burned. 

Forced to re-write

the season:

Pills, rope, 

 

and a hunger strike 

in solitary, at el Morro

castle prison!

Farewell

 

to the Sea.

Accusations; inventions— 

Rapes, thefts 

and burglaries

 

by Castro’s regime;

real assault

was witnessing 

a black drag queen

 

cut her throat in the cafeteria.

Tears, mascara.

A beat-up 

hustler  

 

grabbing her dick

in a miniskirt, 

waltzing the Malecón. 

The refusal,

 

a makeshift

buck knife. Her Poetry.

Pues, el texto

quedó

 

escrito en la nada. 

Sleeping in an inner tube,

a bottle of rum

and a copy of the Illiad

 

you’d never have time to finish.... 

Torture by 

cowardice,

literal steam. 

 

Smiling, grotesque—

Three lost front teeth!

A ribald gap

prayed

 

for cliché—

by boat, plane or coffin,

San Lázaro. . .

On your birthday 

 

in 85’, 

indignity;

the new island. 

A friend’s

 

gift-wrapped,

chic

amphora 

of Troquemichel.

 

Such fucking generosity. 

Rat poison! 

You sat in that jail 

eight years to begin 

 

the end, in exile.

Like Achilles

dragging his corpse 

through the alleys of NYC

 

covered in Kaposi’s,

your happiness

counterrevolutionary.

An insult.

 

A stranger to everyone.

 

Reading Prison

Furtive sweet Maurice.

Edmond, a petty thief.

 

Leon, smoking a cigarette.

Eugene, trolling the boulevard.

 

“The most passionate faun,”

young Giorgio, a Corsican. 

 

Two boyfriend-fishermen

of the Northern Seine, Rafael,

 

and Fortuné. The spectacle!

Eyes like the night, a mouth

 

a scarlet flower

Casquette, in a blue suit

 

and the young Russian, Maltchek 

Perovinski, age 18. In 1900,

 

the year I’d die, I’d kiss

a 15-year old seminarian, 

 

Giuseppe Luverde, behind the altar 

of Cathedral Palermo; I was 47.

 

“What purple hours one can snatch. . . .

My mouth is twisted . . . I feed on fevers.”

 

And don’t forget André! And Pietro 

“like a young St. John” on the left bank, 

 

a quick walk from the Rue des Beaux Arts.

Edoardo Rolla, a dressed sailor—

 

An actor named Didaco, from Genoa!

And godlike curls, nameless in Rome!