A newer modern William Shakespeare is what I crave. Fickle, cherished poet and man long dead, loved by many, Loves from every era since have wooed his text and Tickled their fancies with the quill of his peak-a-boo mind. Jealous and possessive, I learn more and more and look To his many thousands of lovers, past and present, and think “No, surely not enough to go around.” But of course there is And that is the wonder. Inferior, so inferior, in my own talent, I take a masochistic Pleasure in teasing out new epiphanies in his work and thinking I can never achieve a tenth so much. Yet inspired and goaded By his sly humor and wit – a secret open challenge to all – I am compelled to try for maybe a ninth if I can’t do tenth. But what of the man himself? A product of his time and yet An enigma within it. Who would he be today? Believing some, Circumstance is as much to blame as mere existence in who we become. Would he lack the similar drive for his genius, absent the autocratic queen? Could he have become “just another” poet? Or worse, a banker or a clerk? Could his powers of good have been turned to sloth or arrogance or fluff? More importantly, what would our world be today without him then? Who is our W.S. today? Where is he or she? Proof and defender of the power Of art; the need for it in the fabric of the world? Nowhere in the whole that I can see, only in the parts, divided an scattered between many. Instead I am left to mourn the passing of situation comedies that change only Hair styles and euphemisms, safe from a resounding impact on who we are. Eroding, not broadening, our language and comprehension. Maybe it could only Have expanded so far and we exist now during an inevitable contraction? Modern, popular, visible wordsmith and master of today, wherever you are: Come, woo me and satisfy the craving.