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--- A N D Y   M O R G A N


My garment bag was empty at noon: relinquished pastels, smudged corduroy and platelets of tinsel covering a bruised and arthritic trap-door. I fumbled for the camera-nothing: belt loops, a padlock and a key chain: figments of a Neanderthal dawn squeezing my wrists and cuculating the view of headlights upon the pyramids.


Vultures mate for life, I'm sure, but when in the desert hangnails seem trivial to the naked. It's difficult witnessing Cleopatra: she and her damsels glittering while your belongings are scattered about and your appendages begin panting in a key Kandinsky made cliché.


I rung up a tombstone: "Im surrounded (stop) Theres Egyptian whores prancing about (stop) Send Caesar or his like (stop)" I shallowed myself as the serf extinguished. Crumbs of cleaved moonlight silhouetted the tightroped prances of widows suckling sullen breaths. Eddies of luster backstabbed intent: clothing was made immaculate, granite chainsawed, and pastries passed about while, even as I pirouetted, the closest closet ninnied and sunk, cracking its door, slanting the easel, and nibbling nails like an artist.

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