Text and photography by Patrick La Roque
He's thinking of Saul Leiter in a New York blizzard, of dripping shadows brushed across a fedora
& women sprawled in their apartments, pale hearts dissolving in the twilight.
He drinks light like liquor & he paints & he paints
& vapours burn his face & stretch his mind.
He sees atrocities in the deep, the white magic of dark corners;
& he sees beauty.
He speaks in nude technicolor echoes
calling mad horses with a long black tongue;
inside/outside, it's all the same —
All a moving canvas,
stilled within a captured frame.
