I,
summoned to the coterie,
an itinerant Ace;
virtuoso-so.
So unfamiliar
are voyages to freedom
from guitar,
jousting in arena brights
cauterized in nylon mail.
Hoist pianos, and
clean underneath nails, a pinky
to lackluster polish.
Every night, tour
and puke
the prolix phrase.
Formidable hand jobs
behind the fortuitous
dinner plate.
We,
for fans aroused by inerrant prose,
are caught between the exclusive message
and slightly perfect tuning.
