Ordinary enough, he looked,
tough guy, greasy hair,
tight jeans maybe a
hint of James Dean maybe strayed
from a streetcorner in Brooklyn.
He’d drop in, show drawings,
drink coffee, wine, insult bad paintings
“not enough fuerza,” he’d say
cheat everyone at cards. All ordinary.
But when he left, the stories stayed,
lingering for days, defining things.
He grew in his absence.
And we developed secret lives.
The stories lingered
how he aspired to fiction,
reading a newspaper, smoking a cigarette
on a crowded train Santiago to Viña
in a cassock & roman collar;
trying out for a cheap novel,
loading the cassock with figurines
& returning to Santiago
like a truck running refugees
across the border.
Two friends of Fernando’s come
to pick up the barbells and weights
he left scattered amidst the junk. They find
most; only two fifty-pound bronze
ones missing. I haven’t seen them.
I’ll ask. “Say you don’t know.
Victor melted them down to make sculpture.”
Later a bronze head of Christ appears
airy, abstract . . . Victor
lifts weights to artistic heights.
Next, facts aspire to the condition of lies.
Bernardo O’Higgins’ pistols missing
from Museo Nacional:
“How do you know Victor did it?”
“He told me.”
“How do you know he didn’t read it in the paper?”
“He told me three days before it came out in
After days of heat from the police, the anonymous
the pistols are in the National Cathedral
For Victor, a failure but a triumph
his performance was full of danger;
it had dramatic interest, flashy paradox
artistically speaking, his biggest job.
The reviews are good.
Where is he now?
I don’t know,
and probably it’s just as well.
Art, after all, is bigger than life.
He couldn’t have kept up with himself.
And life, after all, is bigger than art.
The poem couldn’t have kept up with him.
MAPUCHE WOMAN: The Art of the Deal
(Around Temuco 1967)
When we climbed on the back of the truck,
She was sitting there picture out of the tourist guide
Leathered skin and full thick, coarse skirt
In colors a computer could never imagine.
When the truck takes a side road
We carry her groceries, mud sucking our shoes
Down the road to her cottage
“The Chileans are my neighbors,
but I don’t like them.
They steal my sheep.”
We arrive at the hedge-hidden yard
And sit outside the postcard cottage.
After chatting a bit, we’re ready to go.
“May we take your picture?”
“Dos mil pesos,” she says.
She poses slyly, pleased with her deal.
We snap the photo, privileged to acquire
Something so authentic.