To soil is to
modify. To shift terms, like two
images that bleed together at a mirror's edge. A boundary without
wall cannot get mended. He would have shoveled Ken Kesey's cow shit
just to breathe the same air he did. But my friend was allergic to
his smoke, as to his privileged skin. A novel has a plot but no soil,
unless you use its paper in the woods. Leave it there and it
self-erases. Liken it
to natural selection, or the retreat of word into sound. Rose is name
and she is noun, more
electronic pulse than
petaled thing. In
the video, he's cut in half, then replicated. He's two partial
wholes, dancing toward us in silky blouse and
tight pants. We forget the
emotion in these songs, he said at his last concert. We didn't know
his piano was a guillotine, that his body would soon scatter, that no
magician could undo the illusion he offered us. He moved so
beautifully, my husband says.
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