7.09.06, "Death Has No Peer"

Allusions to voyeurism. (This is unrelated.) Tom Waits sings “The Black Rider,” none the less.

A nametag that says “Artist” and has a name on it.

A woman, who could be naked, smoking from behind. Black and white with shadows. In Polaroid profile.

Death’s Little Maxims, in the form of an ongoing list.

A rejection slip from another highbrow poetry magazine.

Cut. A perfectly made Americano. Still in that prime, finite window for drinking. For my mother who does not drink coffee, it’s her favorite.

One only slightly faded copy of William Carlos Williams’ book Paterson, supposed to be a locale as allegory for a man’s life. Printed the same year Frank was born.

The constant search for numbers: 7? Or 6? Or 6.47? or maybe 6.8 for sun and include a graphic next to it, Small Face not smiley — what could be worse — just a little face that isn’t really rattled, a brow that’s not really furrowed, not waiting, just being, eyes not too washed out.

Cut. Real eyes, with the biggest question in today’s tightly circumscribed world, what book next?

Circumscription, however, upheld by numerous questions of true immensity.