For Dixon Toro, who stole my very old maroon Chevrolet
in NYC. It was recovered and Dixon arrested, 6 days
later in the Pelham Gardens Motel at 2 in the morning.
Two years on Rikers,
that's heavy time Dixon.
You're going to get it
too. Glucksman says so,
he showed me your record.
Like a bill of lading,
he said.
Crack probably,
that's what Glucksman thinks.
I remember listening to him
in the Criminal Court Building
nodding, Yes, Crack. But it
wasn't crack Dixon,
it was something else,
the way I'd babied it,
that's what I think,
the way it gleamed beneath
the vapor lights. That
deep maroon .
You should've
kept walking Dixon,
punched a Porsche instead,
got high for a week, bought earrings
for Lydia, plantanos
for her kids.
It must
have been the envelope.
The way it lay there.
on the seat, crisp, like money.
Dixon, listen, I know
you read my manuscript,
my twenty poems. I found
them on the back seat floor.
With the cans and wrappers.
And then, Consuela. Ah yes,
Consuela. Who lived downstairs.
Who went to Hunter. Who did
the books at Hector's bar.
Who smoldered. Who was unfuckable.
Who was always reading,
who couldn't take her eyes
off you, who liked your friend's
poems, who didn't know
you were thinking of leaving,
of writing poetry, that
the crack was killing you,
that Justin was sleeping one
off, that you had his car,
that Lydia was not your wife,
that her kids were driving
you crazy, that you had always
wanted her; and Yes,
Consuela, that he would slide
down your belly, his tongue
like a swollen animal,
the motel door open
and the traffic streaming by
, "
like rifle tracers and you
moaning, No, Dixon,
Dios, favor ...
Listen, Dixon, it wasn't
the poems. That they weren't
yours, that you used them
on Consuela. I've done that,
maybe worse. Everyone has.
It's what you' didn't do.
You should have called, sent me,
a postcard, put a Personal
in the Voice, told me some
were shit, some made you shiver,
that Consuela had unfolded
like a wet flower,
that she tasted like smoke,
like a forest. You
should have told me how
it felt Dixon, lying
there, pressing her
nipples, when it all
came down.
Somebody,
you should have told somebody,
Dixon, anybody: the guy
across the cell from you,
the one the jailer just
brought in, the bookish one
with all those poems. Look
at him. He's on to you,
and not amused. He can't
believe you've got the nerve
to hit him up for cigarettes
then flop down on his bunk
like that, your arms outstretched,
and tell him that you're doing
time, You swear to God, Your
mother's grave, for something
that you didn't do .