Suicide, 1964

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.

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Welcome!!! Happy to read you here.

Thanks, José Luis. Glad to be here. Best of luck with this project!!

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