Here my pieces make their spluttering way To infamy, not fame; perspectiveless, yet not Picasso. What the heart tells itself cannot be trusted. "There's too much juice in this goose to be flavorless-- Even the flamboyant great paced out their days In mendicant obscurity. . ." Lies lacquered on lies Blurring the clarity of the true grain. And yet, What we tell ourselves becomes what we are, Dissing the chance disasters that really happened. I sought a balance and sought for it in vain, Finding my stride in a downhill whirl at windmills. . . . Whatever favors fools favors me; My Panama hat made motley by sweat, Waking frozen by nightmare and bathed with regrets. I check myself in the flatness of a passing glass: One enlarged eye, the other dull, bald, In flat retreat like a touched tentacle, The fluted mouth aghast for air as it almost surfaces.