This guy has fire in the belly.
There’s his look: sashaying all cute, squeezed into skin-tight duds.
There’s his voice: ebullient, inexhaustible.
Not once, from his best years
in the 80’s as class raconteur with Chicago roots
to this day, bitterly stubbing out cigarettes in Baton Rouge, LA,
has he shown so much as a glimmer of surrendering.
That vibe wouldn’t fly with him.
In reality, he had no choice.
Everyone has a boss, including artists when
they wear those hoped-for opportunities
like dŽcolletŽ in candlelight.

“In the 90’s,” he said, his voice breaking,
“I’ve been through being mad at my parents,
mad at boys, and a lot of people
can relate to that.”
Callings keep whispering,
the memory of blockbusters galore inspires progress
but I am privy to all the fine print.
And his decisive moment came,
Featuring the Oscar Mayer Weinermobile.

He’s an artist and he lives for his music.
“You never say never,” he said. “But I don’t
anticipate anything coming down the pipeline
anytime soon.”
To the obscure writer,
poet,
singer-songwriter,
photographer,
screenwriter:
I mean, this is the stuff you need to know.

Literature