Saturday, February 7, 2015

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.

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