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So much bad art; I make much myself. A numbers game; it can't snow every day. Then there's the scope of flow; one's landscape is another's ski resort. And don't discount the need to stumble, fart stupidly, be more than obvious. An awful poem -The NY Review of Books. I've always hated this publication - a good read. Another poem regarding the white page: full of muted agony and tempered ecstasy. I'm happy for it; I realize what's missing, what terrifies: if the writer's skill at projecting life upon the emptiness, then imagine what they must do to people.

The transaction - (commas as brush strokes)

He paid for every orgasm, every touch of her breast, her matted fur, with every shaft of forgetting recalled in obsessive strokes of his brush, layers of wet ocher, taupe, and true black. No sense thinking in dollars. He paid in the old-fashioned exchange of experience, never equivalent, concerned, crazed by the i'mbalance, the unaccountable space as framed by two truly appearing, one fleshed in, the canvass a bill to be paid, never enough, such is their beauty, the musk one imagines within the remains, the truth that, at best, the image, she, must be, become something more, less.