in much the same vein as the tibetan lama called a treasure seeker is informed of the whereabouts of sacred objects in his dreams.. objects hidden by the enlightened in the waves of time.. so i am informed through in my sleeping hours..

of the presence of hidden works by writers and artists the world has no recollection of..

 

it always begins this way:

 

i am walking through a deserted street. the tar is smooth and black, recently laid. There isn't a sign of an automobile. There is a distinctive odor in the air, which is still and warm.. it's always unfamiliar.. that scent..

 

up above, apartment windows catch the light from a sun I can never see.. the glass is opaque and golden.. i have the feeling there is a conciousness behind each.. watching me with calm animality..

 

i feel these measured stares upon me as someone approaches.. a man bowed over in a great-coat.. he shuffles over the paving stones.. and opens his jacket..

 

finger-bones, tufts of hair, glass vials filled with teeth.. glittering rings.. oddly shaped stones.. he looks up into my eyes, displaying his yellow dogs-teeth..

 

each of these relics hangs from a small loop of leather..

 

his eyes have that hollowed, anguished look of the terminally ill.. the desperation of an internal struggle right down to the level of the cell.. he invites me with a nod of his bullet shaped head.. to take my pick..

 

Tonight I snag a silver hinge..