Man makes about man more than not, it looks to me.  over and over again we look at ourselves, I look at another looking at a museum exhibition of the Lascaux caves, paintings by man for man – draw what the world is, write it, what other creature does this?  Writing is our habit, like silk from spiders, and reef from coral, we write, in and to the world.  Writing on top of writing, so much more real than the living “I,” we require certain writing about ourselves to dictate our interpersonal experience.  License, please? Name?  What is identity without writing?

My eyes go wide, the pupils shrink to pinholes, as I place my hands on the shoulders of my journal and say, ‘it’s all the writing.’ I brace for the Universal No Duh reverb.  But instead it just trots away from me, without looking back.

I keep it quiet in here, after Kubla Khan, and during, again, .  Even with Samuel Coleridge Taylor do I see a poem more about a writer, nay, more about a primary perspective, than about a location.  Must I run as fast as I can through Poetry dot canon to the Rime of the Ancient Mariner?