all these black and white still shots
of mid twentieth centurt authors
in their late twenties,
always in their late twenties,
always

always reclining in their late twenties
help me confuse em
with each other

interchangeable
in black and white still shots
under that exact haircut

and every one of them
their eyes
seem to wrestle
with the thought
or the dream
of some great american novel











except hemmingway
he is always
a mountain
and a beast
with the little bits of madness
readable in his cheekbones
and unpressed shirt
with his beard and cigarette smoke

and those drunk eyes without peace