I woke up and smelled the urine at age forty-five few friends no social life alone bedraggled a hermit a curmudgeon hiding crab-like into the shadowy fade of delusion. Upon my direction silent screen stars emerge on cue from a script and sight-read auditions to play me, then meander restless bored hungry for recognition and starved for the excitement of bad reviews...half a life of cancellations sick calls no-shows and lousy excuses walking the streets tonight in search of a coke and a slimjim. Words are cheap i know I' ve heard it said all my life; they come easy to me nowadays with eerie and uncanny accuracy... to torment an old aging bard self-serving the informal obscurity of my art. Self-exile from the dull the dying and the dead inspired at first a howl of reticence from those in the right of way, till they realized I was traveling blind. The art of semantics...performed with accomplished savvy and form...is no more than acquired skills needed along the way for perfection and precision of concise slights-of-hand designed to con the reader into jerking the writer off. I swim upstream against a white water of metaphor and simile wet with the drowsy soak of ambiguity...chilling the heart, rendering divisions between real and what I believe is not. My dreams are witches shamans alchemists who perform perfect illusions of girlish flesh-vendors with the breath of Bacchus getting trounced by an army of riderless horses...beggars having set them free. The wishes of all artists are the same. We seek definition identity salvation acknowledgment immortality and hopefully an impression of existential charm. In the afterlife of creativity there is no right no wrong no good no bad no questions of credibility...as I sleepwalk through a stranger's dark house wandering cautiously naked and uninvited.