"'The Botticelli of buffalo.'
I hate academic artists.
Their pretentious shows, fatuous jargon.
University sinecures.
Once, I was in danger of becoming one myself.
I'd won a state creative fellowship,
but truly, art was different then.
That was in a golden age.
That year, I was the toast of Phoenix
and had a very romantic affair with the director of the Arts
Commission, Alexander Resnikoff.
Old Alex still attends openings, still knows everybody.
His belly still appears on my more dignified elders.
And I still call him after all these years
for comfort and advice.
At Picacho Peak, I pull over to stop on the shoulder.
100 yards up, cactus surrenders to bare rock, blue sky,
blazing sun, one wheeling vulture.
I turn the AC to high, reach into the back for my sketchpad,
and lose myself in my moving hand, while Harper
reclines and closes his eyes.
But pretty soon, I'm parched, my mouth, my throat, even my skin.
I ask for some pineapple guava, and he kneels
on the seat to open the cooler.
Nothing ever tasted better.
These are the pleasures that Billy lost.
Dying is a hateful thing.
To old people, the end of love.
And to the young, to such as Harper,
what does death mean to him?
Harper plans to shop a mall while I'm busy downtown.
Because, you see Harper buys things, clothes,
and shoes, toasters and blenders, videotapes and books.
I've talked to him about it.
Area rugs, overnight totes, Australian glass-eyed apricots,
I've threatened, and I've begged.
Gourmet cheesecakes though he never eats more than a sliver.
He buys things for himself and me, for people
he likes and doesn't like.
People he doesn't even know.
When we met, he could control it.
Now he's ashamed, but he can't stop.
The bagged boxes fill my cabinets, overflow my closets.
They're piling up unopened along the walls of my garage.
Some purchases, he hides in the trunk of his car,
then sneaks in at night when he supposes I'm asleep.
I hear him in the kitchen, dragging a chair
across the floor, to where a ceiling
hatch opens into a crawlspace.
He's stuffing things up there.
I can't bear to look.
If I ever sell, the new people will get it all.
Life is like that, anyway.
And sometimes, I wonder, OK.
So what?
What the hell is wrong with me?
Harper gives.
He's a horn of plenty.
The first bath, the last donut, the shiniest praise.
I have stolen his eyes, made off with his neck and clavicles,
for innumerable youths and maidens.
Don't I owe him anything he wants?
Friends used to admire my generosity.
Now, it's one more failing organ.
When we pulled into the mall, he gets half out of the car,
then leans back in to kiss me.
'Bud, should I come with you?
I can.' 'No, no, that's OK.'
'Should I call you on your cell?'
'Please don't, and don't buy me anything.'
Kneeling on the seat, he says into my neck,
'The veins are popping on your forehead.'
Then he whispers, 'Please, don't do anything on impulse.'
And stepping backward with a smile,
easier to paint than understand, he's gone.
Each of these winter days is lovelier than the last.
I pass an open convertible, two cyclists in shining shorts,
a bare-chested runner.
In Phoenix, you'd see much the same,
but these aren't the streets I know.
Elegant mountains around the city,
how could Harper leave me alone?
I try thinking about Billy, but that's no good either.
Because what I expect to find is that Billy died senile.
It's our family curse.
By my age, most of us males are mindless droolers.
I saw my own father cursing and sweating
and try to stuff his keys into a payphone.
Now, whenever I go out, I write down where I'm going.
Don't do anything on impulse.
What did Harper mean by that?
Suppose we stay together, he'd help me if I lost my faculties.
But by then, he'd had spent me out of my home,
and we'd both be on the street.
I punch his warm empty seat as something whizzes
by on the sidewalk, a legless man on a wheeled board,
palming the pavement with huge gloved hands.
Sport or transportation?
Sweat darkens his yellow headband.
Seeing him roll on and on, a fellow with no time for dread.
I tell myself, calm down, Bud.
What's happened so far isn't the worst.
Not even close."