Red and Its Biographer by Steve Mueske —after Billy Collins I picture red's biographer at his desk, hunched over, writing incendiary prose by candlelight. The manuscript begins with red's humble entrance into the visible spectrum, a low wave, and covers its rise to a primary color. Red, of course, is amused by the attention, but remains aloof. The biographer, who's amassed tomes on dancing shoes, dresses, the nature of desire, is a shy man who keeps to himself, a shut-in in his little cabin. He seldom angers, and would remain sexually inert were it not for lingerie catalogs. If red had its say, it would have preferred a Plutarch, Boswell, or even Jack Miles to this wisp of a man. Ah, but winter promises to be long and cold and there is a warm fire here. Red might stay for a while, nudging now and again when the text becomes too dull and colorless. © 2003 by Steve Mueske. All rights reserved. Home