Dry faded words strung like

rosaries pleading large advance.

A photograph, chiaroscuro lighting

as some expert (whose name is

chased by letters but who avoids

them in all other contexts) advised, of

the author.  Sitting, smoking.  Looking

deep while his airbrushed skin looks

smooth among the other greys.

Any desperation of working while

unrecognized, unpublished... any

passion of loneliness, and any of the

inevitable expectation of its dissipation

or even reversal upon fame’s arrival... any

recognition of approaching death, of

devouring impersonal cancers or immuno

deficiencies, of coughing through aged

lungs or twitching of arthritis fingerbones...

none may be unearthed from the carefully

beautiful words or piggybacked images.

Reading, inquiring and hoping to be

reading, joying; looking for the hit to be

returned, for the quick commence to

happy intercourse; one finds inextricable

ink, an impenetrable creator, and that the

whore has no panties to remove.  And

one hopes for the distant day when

pages go brittle and yellow so that

message, now with decayed broken

medium, strings poetically at long last.

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