Dear Wallace Stevens, Etc.

“No, I will not climb into that hole with you,” says heart to brain and thus begins daily Parcheesi.

**

I love Dante. I love him so much I once stole his bust from the English Department at Hobart College. I kept him for about fifteen years. Sometimes I’d light a cigar and blow smoke in his face. Then one morning, on a whim, I returned the bust. Put him right back on the bookshelf.

Properly, he smelled smoky.

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Writing gets you in trouble. Not writing gets you in trouble. I’m told bird watching can get you in trouble what with the real estate laws.

**

Spoke once with Pentti Saarikoski via telephone. “Maybe one day we will meet in this mad world,” he said. Of the meeting, never. Of mad planet, quasi-Quisling Sasquatches running the show…

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Lately I’ve been eating berries.

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The study of aesthetics and anesthetic are not far apart.

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Dear Wallace Stevens: my angel is very small, folds up really, suitable for all leave takings.