The poet presents himself as a dichotomy.Whatever is apparent becomes obscured,and all the luscious facts wither into hard statistics.Born here, did that, intended something elsebut I forget what. The intruding ‘I’.The breakneck speed on machines of make-believewhich finally slow motion curve into the cemetery.Alibis salute the endless proud momentspassing in formal parade. I returns to me andassumes him. The biography keeps breaking into the picture, looking for safety pins or paper clips ora staple gun, anything to fence outlayers of advice peeling from public walls:reality is for people who can’t cope with art.Written words line up like bright pills in a glass case,your fingers turning the key.Time is for people who can’t stop.Rigor mortis keeps looking at the clock.
