title poem from Suicide, 1964 (1st published collection, available on Amazon)
photography / poetry at craigmartingetz*com
There’s a black and white Andy Warhol
lithograph of a picture taken of some guy
plummeting off an office building
the year I was born. And not so far away,
carnations! Red carnations and a spritzing
of button-size white fireworks that belong
to the Chrysanthemum family. Roses too,
a cheap bunch, bouquet, of slightly
imperfect… apricot 's the word, roses
I purchased today with the money
I have earned. Withering;
but that goes without saying.
The knobby-kneed stems fish-eyed
in a clear bubble vase; or,
the thorns, the thought of thorns,
down the inside of a twilight blue
lead crystal one. He will never be fully
dead. If every time man stands with heels
at the edge, lets his eyes gaze skyward,
lets his gaze raise his face and his face
begins to angle higher and the further back
his head tilts, the further his shoulders, torso,
body, come to the inevitable when
things speed up
–gravity grabbing on to every ounce– and if
someone notices, notices man falling
and feels the pang of noteworthiness,
takes out his camera, tries to focus
(there is a bit of a rush here!)
and snaps away, well, something,
a glimmer, will stay just as it was
the moment the picture was taken.