I'm published, on the Net, she said --

a nimbus of vermouth revealed

unholy spirits round her head.

I am an artist, I write too,

and publish on the Net, she stressed.

and now I'm writing about you.

The Great Celebrity, a Jew,

and published elsewhere, then confessed,

What did you say? I can't hear you.

The microphone, she muttered

while waving it around to show,

so no one heard a single word.

Then flipping through her journal loud

avec le gest très grand, to cite

herself and thus to get it right.

Something about peacocks -- No!

I read your book! Christ-killers -- that,

yes that is what I want to know!

What is your question? he restive;

she babbles minutes, two, then three,

and ends in vague interrogative.

The Celebrity's tie brimmed hell-fire red,

beneath the spot. Your muse, he said,

should be the muse of brevity.