PhotoCollage: You cannot know him he is the Lone Ranger and always wears his tight rubber mask.

I do not know him yet I know him. Le boyz just call him the Lone Ranger because he does not let us see his face.

He called. Very, very few people have that cell number. The ones who do want something and they're almost always prepared to pay for it. We might be human trash but we're not cheap human trash. We charge a lot of money for this. He arrives with cash.

I have stood in the windows of the loft watching him walk down the street. Even at night in the shadows cast by the street lights you can obviously see he's wearing a rubber mask. His eyes and nose are visible. Nothing else. The eyes are green. Even at night, people stare. I am of the opinion that the stares are a turn-on for him.

We need the cash. Art supplies are expensive and we are junkies for art supplies and junkies. Period.

The spilling of the choir light dim through the skylight of the loft. He stands naked except for the mask. We sketch him. We paint him. We take his photograph. Jerk him off.

Mop it up.

When he leaves, he always takes the Art with him. The Lone Ranger who wants you to see him does not want to be seen. The contradictions and ironies abound. He wants us to see him, know him, but the people in his real life must not know about the sex, the Art, the nudity, the money, or the mask.

Or they might know him, too. As we know him.

And mop him up.

The Art is his. He bought it with his cash.

Except for this collage which I have stolen from him and from me. Just one more insignificant, unknowable artist who is a thief.

I do it for you. I do it all for you. You. You. The beginning and the end. All. All. All.

The Lone Ranger in absentia. The disguises of humanity. His quick breath and the smell of sex. Lingering. In frantic escape.

Even here.