The New Womans Broken Heart

emotional preoccupations of her time, then this new cycle of loss

came, overabundant, overwhelming, and leveled her out flat, she

could not bear it no matter what comparisons she made, at first she

held on. at first she would have settled for fish and eggs and milk, a

chair to sit on, some money in the bank, and sleep every night in

which loss left her alone, she bartered with God the loanshark, time

went on and bertha was dragged out flatter and flatter until the

nerve that was pure greed was stretched out onto the surface of her

skin, exposed, raw, naked, jagged, ragingly sore, detachment was

lost, discipline was lost, bertha cursed Disembodied Wisdom as the

seducer and abandoner who had passed her on to a terrible new

master, Pure Greed, herself turned inside out. she wanted purple

velvet curtains, a red velvet couch in which she would be happy to lie

forever and die, fresh crab and vulgar lobster, and women, the

bodies of women, pure taste and touch and fingers reaching in and

bellies rubbing wildly against, sweat and goo and no tomorrows, not

like the men, not to prove or to have, but each sensation for its own

sake, each sensation the whole of life, so that greed would wipe out

deprivation, erase it and the memory of it, each time, the impossible,

forever, her heart had become hungry, ravenous, but, cursed with

the love of meaning which she could not lose no matter how hard she

tried, lust made her sad, and her own lust struck her dumb with

grief, because if dust always reduced to lust, loss had triumphed,

bertha was lost, the crime was the punishment, lust was dust, still,

nothing worth a tear.

time passed, seasons changed, lilacs came and went, roses were

bom and died, the leaves turned burgundy and orange, then fell

burying the cement and earth, then froze under the first snow,

bertha stared, bertha stirred, bertha walked, bertha sat. bertha

turned restlessly night after night, bertha buried herself in dust, and

dust herself she covered dust, she sneezed it and snorted it and spit it

out. and dust spit right back, and dust flew by, looking the other

way. sweat made dust sticky, turned it salty or sweet or bitter, the

wind blew it away and the rain washed it away and the snow froze it

into slicing slivers, dust she was and dust she always would be, phi-

losophy aside, sad dust, greedy dust, slightly silly dust, dust enchanted by dust, dust cast into air by a sigh, landing or not landing, depending on weather or whether.

the new womans broken heart

(for E. and L. )

morning broke. I mean, fell right on its goddam ass and broke, no

walking barefoot if you care about yr feet, kid.

I waited and waited, no call came. I cant say, the call didnt come

because it wasnt a question of one really, it was a question of any

one. it was a question of one goddam person calling to say I like this

or that or I want to buy this or that or you moved my heart, my spirit,

or I like yr ass. to clarify, not a man calling to say I like yr ass but one

of those shining new women, luminous, tough, lighting right up from

inside, one of them, or some of the wrecked old women I know, too

late not to be wrecked, too many children tom right out of them, but

still, I like the wrinkles, I like the toughness of the heart, one of

them, not one of those new new new girl children playing soccer on

the boys team for the first time, young is dumb, at least it was when I

was young. I have no patience with the untom, anyone who hasnt

weathered rough weather, fallen apart, been ripped to pieces, put

herself back together, big stitches, jagged cuts, nothing nice, then

something shines out. but these ones all shined up on the outside,

the ass wigglers. I’ll be honest, I dont like them, not at all. the

smilers. the soft voices, eyes on the ground or scanning outer space,

its not that I wouldnt give my life for them, I just dont want them to

call me on the telephone.

still, business is business. I needed one of them, the ass wigglers, to

call me on the phone, editors, shits, smiling, cleaned up shits, plasticized turds, everything is too long or too short or too angry or too rude, one even said too urban. Im living on goddam east 5 street, dog

shit, I mean, buried in dog shit, police precinct across the street

sirens blazing day and night, hells angels 2 streets down, toilet in the

hall and of course I have colitis constant diarrhea, and some asshole

smiler says too urban. Id like to be gods editor. I have a few revisions

Id like to make.

so I wait, not quietly, I might add. I sigh and grunt and groan. I

make noise, what can I say. my cat runs to answer and then demands

attention, absolutely demands, not a side glance either but total rapt

absolute attention, my whole body in fact, not a hand, or a touch, or

a little condescending pat on the head. I hiss, why not, I mean I

speak the language so to speak.

which brings me to the heart of the matter, ladies, for instance, a

lady would pretend she did not know exactly what to say to a cat that

demanded her whole life on the spot, she would not hiss, she would

make polite muted gestures, even if she were alone, she would act as

if someone was watching her. or try to. she would push the cat aside

with one hand, pretending gentle, but it would be a goddam rude

push you had better believe it, and she would smile, at the window,

at the wall, at the goddam cat if you can imagine that, me, I hiss,

thus, all my problems in life, the ladies dare not respect hissers. they

wiggle their goddam asses but hissers are pariahs, fem ale hissers.

male hissers are another story altogether.

for example, one morning I go to cover a story. I go 1500 miles to

cover this particular story, now, I need the money, people are very

coy about money, and the ladies arent just coy, they are sci fi about

money, me, Im a hisser. I hate it but I need it. only I dont want to

find it under the pillow the next morning if you know what I mean. I

dont wear stockings and I want to buy my own hershey bars, or steal

them myself at least. Id really like to give them up altogether, but I

wouldnt really and its the only social lie I tell, anyway I pick my own

health hazards and on my list sperm in situ comes somewhere below

being eaten slowly by a gourmet shark and being spit out half way

through because you dont quite measure up. its an attitude, what

can I say. except to remind the public at large that the Constitution

is supposed to protect it.

so I go to cover the story and the ass wigglers are out in large

numbers. I mean they are fucking hanging from the chandeliers,

and there are chandeliers, ritzy hotel, lots of male journalists,