On the computer screen, a Crystal K.D. Huie
image shot in 1972 of an Arkansas farmer
surrounded by his turkeys. Black and white. He
smiles--forest in the background. Photography

is huge. Writing about it is like taking pictures of music.
Some new-age prophet in L.A. told me that:
you find your craft at 24, at 27 you're trimming the fat,
and by 30 you've got it more or less well in hand.

But I question her sources. One of her spiritual
excursions was lifted verbatim from Fight Club.
Another came from The Game, (which is a book of
techniques for picking up women, if you didn't know).

John Maloof found Vivan Maier at auction
but his own stuff isn't that strong. (I saw his flickr.)
Without her, he's just some rich kid in
real estate with a digital Leica.

Claire is singing den Erlkönig in the living room
and I'm on the floor in her room with a guitar,
a head cold, and a snippet of something. Too
much, too many things, to choose among.