Burt Blume wrote from Tokyo.
He was told by Thanassis Valtinos.
Thanassis and Burt tried to call Katerina.
But Katerina is now a drunk.
The search ended there.
My search didn’t end.
Tasso was my best friend in Iowa City
And the University of Fantasy.
Its top boss lived on Mount Parnassus
Just off from North Dubuque Street.
The last time I met Tasso was in Delhi
At the World Poetry Festival I had organized.
He had shaven off his piratical moustache.
We went to Agra and saw the Taj Mahal.
We visited Fatehpur Sikri.
I didn’t ask Tasso if he still wrote poetry.
We kept silent about America.
We didn’t smoke hashish from Turkey.
I didn’t ask him about his girl friend Vasiliki.
We were both distraught.
Tasso said we had gone to America the wrong way.
We should’ve been illegal immigrants.
We should have washed dishes in a restaurant.
We should’ve shined American shoes.
We should’ve whored in Chicago.
We should never have accepted a travel grant
From the State Department through the University of Iowa.
We should’ve gone to California instead.
We should’ve joined the gold rush.
We should’ve hung around San Francisco
Or on the fringes of Hollywood in L.A.
We missed our chance and instead went home
To our ancient civilizations.
We should’ve smoked grass or hashish.
Served some clandestine purpose.
We should’ve made millions grabbing the chance.
Tasso had been obsessed by America.
He loved Bonnie and Clyde and Mayor Daley.
He deified gangsters.
He loved burgers.
He chased American pussies.
America was like religion to Tasso.
He loved its beers and pubs.
He worshipped baseball and American football.
He thought it was the new Rome.
He wished to fuck Marilyn Monroe.
Tasso is gone now.
Away and nowhere.
I’ve lost his trail.
I continue to crawl in India
As one of its one billion worms.
Death doesn’t make any difference.
I’m suffering from cancer of the liver.
My tumour grew on booze and drugs.
Tasso doesn’t know where I am.
He doesn’t know a thing.
——Dilip Chitre (1975-76, IWP)