BRAD DOHERTY

Brad Doherty destroyed his cameras after viewing his latest prints of black cocks and pink pussies.

"Nobody appreciates art anymore," he lamented. "I feel like I've spent my whole life losing sunglasses."

He took a drink from his gin & tonic and continued in his West Texas drawl: "They say that a picture is worth a thousand words. Pictures say nothing. They delude us into thinking that we're perceiving reality. I've spent my entire life behind a lens and I see nothing. Only the word will survive for a short period of time. I've changed my approach. Instead of having women pose naked for me while I photograph them, I have them pose nude while I write poetry."

Doherty reached into his pocket and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper. He flattened the sheet and haltingly read his newest verse:

"I don't know any better/than to stare out the window./The days drag by slower/than those lived by a widow./I don't care for the battle./I don't give a damn about the war,/but thirsty for prattle/I head for the nearest bar./I'm already drunk/from time spent doing nothing./I down a few rums;/I wish there were something./Back at my place/in the cold of the room,/I spit in my face/and stare at my doom./I have finished my say;/I need to get high./But I am glad today/is not the day that I die."

He shook his head in disgust, rolled the paper into a ball and chucked it into a wastebasket. It was a three-point shot.

"Forget poetry," consoled Anthony Starr. "Stick to your photography."