my brilliant revolutionary friends
have started up
this ballsy publishing endeavor

at this moment
in a neighborhood in cleveland
whose best days were during WWII
there is a man sweating through
his derrida as darth vader t-shirt
in a garage constructed of rust and temerity

wearing splattered black framed glasses
and a leather apron if only in my fantasy
toiling
with a passion for art
and
ink on his hands

typesetting
over an antique price chandler press
one of my poems

there is something sacred
about the old ways
about friends uplifting each other
about creating a scene
about vintage onion skin paper bleeding

i have never been so honored
to call myself
a writer