He is a commercially artistic

hurricane blowing into city

after city along the seashore

causing small groups gathered

 

for intimate readings to gasp for

air. He writes poetry but makes

his living by selling DVDs and

sound recordings of the poetry

 

and promotes his stuff online,

on You-tube and wherever else

possible. Hey, a boy’s got to make

a living. He is like the entre-

 

preneurial Bunny and the some-

thing less than authentically spiritual

gospel singers roaming the south

for vulnerable “individual salva-

 

tion in Jesus Christ” congregat-

ions in which to hawk revival

wares: “After the altar call, the

the DVDs will be available

 

at a discount price on what used

to be the communion table in the

vestibule on your way out follow-

ing the benediction.” He writes of

 

titillating intimacy in metaphors

under bed linens, of Boy Scout flash-

lights stealing the innocence of

the boy, while lighting the female

 

figure from bottom to top under

cover. It’s a story of looking

late into the night out of sight of

mom and dad, pruriently peering

 

at the essentially sensual, experience-

ing the erotic, perhaps, in the hope

that such visions will lead the pant-

ing public to swoon over videos,

 

DVDs and song recordings of the

poet’s purely, artistically, authentic

poetry available for a discount on a

table next to the door on their way out.