//I have been streaking-
once so clean the lens would squeak
and the hands that would hold the frame
in place(s
no one would quite expect)
‘til left with prayers by midnight,
--at least I’m upfront.with my backtalk--
I join the fray
and those personal wars-
(every blonde-bombshell dropping in
from time to time)
clenching the cloth in my hand
all wrung out
still its screen
the paper-view
the low end in high demand-
a ransom not.e worthy; like all our little letters
cut out and cropped in magazines
the clips emptied/
but with these images glossed over
and wiped out
filthy watercolours sweating, dripping, streaking
before the point-blank
point of view/glances shot
straight through
(I brush it off.)
but now the paint just leaks from the frame
and the modern portrait
is left to blame.—