'The poems appear on city sidewalks, written in pastel chalk. Words of love bloom outside a chocolate shop; verses about the rain emerge beside a nail salon.
Every letter is precise, as if a human typewriter click-clacked Courier Bold characters across the concrete:
I saw you today
How beautiful you looked,Lost in the distance
Of so long a silence.
Each line has its own hue: butter yellow, mint green, orange sherbet. The colors spill across 10 feet of sidewalk.
He signs the poem, adds a fake copyright symbol above his fake name.
So who is he really, you ask. Why the veil of secrecy?
The poet smiles. He looks to the sky. Again, he gives a sideways answer:
"T.S. Eliot said,'the more perfect the artist, the more separation there will be between the man who suffers and the art he produces.'
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