I took the test.
Persistent rash?
A cough? A rumor.
A fungus
from that polluted
Ipanema beach.
I smiled when I heard,
took a drag, bent
my wrist, palm up. Juana
Delledonne. Boquita
pintada, indigo
like the night. A paradise
of jasmine gardens.
To hell with Peronism.
I was censored
for that word
coger, ignored—
Mostly disappointed by
Babenco’s Kiss. Even
Nancy Reagan
turned it off, halfway in—
Like my last meal,
four grave spoonfuls
of mashed potatoes. . .
My daughter, Javier
Labrada, mailed her cigar
ashes to Argentina
smearing me along Orquídea St.
in Cuernavaca instead!
A true queen. As
for Ms. Oscar,
“La Hurt is so bad
she will probably
win.” She did.
She never understood
Valentín, or how
loving a macho
—but only if he really beat you.
To give oneself!
To get down on both knees
barking like a Bichon Frise.
That’s real joie de vivre.
To have a cause?
Pornography.
image: Doug Paul Case
