Letter, Part II

I am aware that all of you crave to know the thoughts of your fellow creatures whether profane or inspiring. So with this knowledge, I will share another letter from a devoted reader.

Gentlemen,
Last night was fitful. The demons robbed me of another night of blissful slumber—they made an enemy of my bed. So I grudgingly arose to fetch the volume you had suggested for me: Socks, Pinecones, and Old Rags: A Traveler’s Guide to Europe’s Forgotten Alleys by Kevin Gray. I must say it is an enjoyable companion during a sleepless night. Allow me to offer my thanks to the editors for suggesting this fine publication.
Next, I will take another cue from your reading list and send for Ask Me About Prison Musicals by Kyle Melton, Esq.

Thus, now you all can see the esteem in which I am held by countless great thinkers, theorists, and saints.

Because you all look to me as a mountain of intellect and a storehouse of valuable philosophical and theological information, and although you cannot begin to grasp the dizzying heights of my mental achievement, I will remain patient—much as an angry minister keeps his cool amidst scruffy, immoral parishioners.

As with the last letter, I let the flames lick the carcass of this one.

Letter to the Editor

As a man of the NEW century, I wear many hats. Indeed, I am a village unto myself. So believe me when I say that much of what I do is far too intricate for any of you to comprehend, so I won’t list my awesome endeavours as it would be like a great philosopher trying to explain epistemology to deaf infants. But just know that one of my roles is publisher of a sophisticated and intellectually challenging magazine that most of you could not begin to fathom. Part of my indispensable duties is to read mail from readers who seek to bathe in my GLORY. Below is an excerpt from such a letter.

Gentlemen,
I took your advice and set-to for a brief sojourn in Yellow Springs. I found the town to be a-bustle with touristy types and a motley collection of ne’er do wells (surely, you must feel right at home). The villagers are as wayward as wild donkeys but friendly and cheerful nonetheless. I found myself browsing the many shops, some of which offer colorful pipes and other smoking utensils. Curious thing though, all the quaint handmade signs read “for tobacco use only.” Sir, on what else would someone use these delicate pieces of smokery?

As with many letters that I receive, I burned this screed in the great fireplace at my lair.

Troy Triangle

Puddles, muddles, vines, and anti-aircraft replicas—
‘Twas a night that Benjamin Smith liberated Paris
and spied a bicycle where no mortal could have parked it.
The pizza was the greatest show on Earth during the night
the night that we (some of us) remember as the emotional rescue
wherein a shambling wretch was last seen drawn to the light
the light in the kitchen of a Chinese restaurant.

Belly Dancer

Belly dancer, belly dancer, you must give me some tips.
Should I watch your shimmy shake or focus on your lips?
And what about that floating veil and bells around your hips?
I guess I’ll just sit back and see which strikes my fancy
Then hope you’ll show some kindness and give me a private dancy.

Library Lady

Library lady, library lady, I like your look
Perhaps one day we can check out a book
One with odd characters and a great sleazy plot
We will do it in secret so that we won’t be caught
But such madness will reveal me for a hopeless flirt
Then surely you’ll slap me as I lift your short skirt.

The Mariner

Funny. I attended a dog wedding once. An ancient, ragged man with an eye patch molested me. He wanted to tell me a story about his journey across the salty sea. I said that I had no time for such nonsense and told the old vagrant about a Jewish monk and collector of arcane tales named Benjamin Smith who indeed “entertains” old hobos and then draws out their preposterous stories as a spider draws the guts from an insect. I then laid my hand on his shoulder, looked him in the eye, and said that I had made many new friends now that I had stopped biting people. He wandered off.

Redd Foxx

The Redd Foxx Project is the unhinging of perception. It is the tablecloth being whipped away sending dishes clattering to oblivion. It is the point at which matter becomes the mind. It is where chip meets salsa. It is the culmination of several hours devoted to guitars, drums, improvisational lyrics, voodoo, and a cascade of cheap canned beer.