Hold, hold… Serious, now… A-G gravitas. A-G gravitas. Man, does this photographer look like Barrett, in 1985, or something. Hold. Hold. The air conditioner’s constant (unnoticed but never silent), an enclosed front porch converted to language. Write down later. I wonder why Lyn never calls, or Charles. OK, so click for once, dammit, click, what the hell, CLICK THE MOTHERFUCKING CAMERA, relax, don’t smile, oh, OK, finally, phew. Don’t forget air conditioning as language. Toucans stuffed in museum diorama, too.  

 [This is the second in an ongoing series titled, 

What Poets Thought When Having Their Author Photo Done.]