Ese Louie… Chale, call me “Diamonds,” man! —José Montoya He shined shoes as a boy for movie money, & I imagined how a shinebox might fit under the theater’s seat the way it fit decades later when I saw it in that dark beneath my grandparent’s old, sunken spring-bed. Later bulldozed, the Phoenix theater must have looked like those pre-war cinemas mostly lost now but documented in the photographs of Hiroshi Sugimoto —for which the artist placed his large- format camera in the last rows of spring-shut seats below ornate wall-carvings & baroque sconces where he then left the camera’s aperture open for a full feature. It is what we see of stars—all endings & untouchable beginnings: images, characters, & plot gone & only white light left. The cedar box housing brushes, rags, & tins of polish had its hinged latch & the handle that also cradled a shoe. My foot’s never touched it, but I wonder which brush inside might brush back, against the grain, one of those photos to extend the wet finger of projection over a boy, who looks up toward the screen like he looked up from a shine. Or is the figure to borrow from that other invention? Could I carve open a pinhole in the shinebox for its storehouse of inverted images? —as if revolutions were that simple an apparatus of optics to have the shiner ascend there to what shines.