Hungry Heart
poetry
Hungry Heart Molasses and mudpies, biscuits in the oven, biscuits on the rise, fried ham, vidalia onions your praline in mine. Whoever said the heart’s not a part of the digestive system never had love for breakfast after scrounging long nights in an inhospitable desert. If it were true, you’d never thrown that plate of pasta against the wall with the proclamation “We’re done.” Leaving me to decipher these corpuscular patterns Searching for the connections where blood and sauce, light and noodles, paint and skin, converge in a found Pollack painting. But all I can see is the face of Sagawa, the Japanese cannibal free after 25 years in a French mental institution, on a park bench taking interviews. “Do you think you’ll ever eat again?” “I don’t think so. It was disappointing. Besides they pay me good money to go down on a young women at the Porno in the Wall station.” And then your cackling face followed by the teeth and claws of Manatore, Roy’s pet tiger, jumping to maul his visage while Siegfried watches. The heart is the main organ of digestion, not just a lonely hunter but a ravenous animal the stomach fills while the heart gets hungrier. If Beethoven and Rilke’s desires had been consummated the moon would not be a sonata, the sun would not be a sonnet. You would not be running in your kimono and slippers I would not be racing monkeys swinging from limb to limb searching for more, more.


From jazz to abstract expressionism—a fruitful evolution, I think. Now I wonder: how far out can these poems get? But Ray’s imagination keeps exploring bold new metaphors!
Bold and bright! I echo Miner, well done!