the mystery man was game. he would climb the ladder,
that someone throw away. he would build the bridge, which
enlargens under another womans feet. with bra or without.
the mystery man is still game. the life is just run and hide,
take it or leave it - he mumbles. (in his mumblings he is not so
mysterious) but he does what must be done:
he would be game, if he knows what game it is.
and whoever writes this stuff about him.
climbing broken ladders in ill fit bras of soundless
German philosophers, seeking silence for
a new language. like brave brigdes over
plain solid ground . . .