A denizen of horror, a master of

ceremonies--bleeds out the sprinting

digits of a million clapperboards.

Relativistic rods of light showcasing

windows to faces that shouldn't be there.

As his corneas drop like glasses of

nightly milk startled by nonlocal

trespass.

He manages a robe that appears to have

been thrown on the fire of film.

His slippers split fake leather, as they

sequence what inches toward harm--

a screen's inn.

Which waits to reap a seeing.

His ears stock ashy twitters that scale

grizzly discoveries, like beef in a cow's

stomach.

Knowing that one staring at the back

of one's head, guarantees the back of

one's head being stared at in a theater.

With the proviso that there is no front

row (in reality).

He screams in the shower, not because

the water is too hot or cold.

There's something about a

death-obsessed animal sounding through

plaster & piles of brick--coupled with the

whole-body barks of a dog.

Which he loves to play back, as if a

third-party listener.