As much as I hate to admit it, I’m

not avant garde.  Ever since freshman year

back in 1970, I have had

my aesthetic preconceptions torn down

by the wrecking crews of Dadaism,

Surrealism, Minimalism,

Poststructuralism (notice those two

sts in a row, almost like borschtch),

and the general Deconstructionist

endeavor.

                  But my muse always beckons

from the edge of peripheral vision,

and I turn and chase what I imagine

to be a slender waif with tender breasts,

cold eyes sparkling with interstellar laughter.

                                                                        (2006)

 

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