Monday, April 18, 2011

A Letter Denouncing John Latta!


you braying donkey!

you post at the head of your posts
always some slight repast of wabi sabi

then spend your hours
making crystal cries against
disorder's perfection

the truth

is that crickets
are donkey

and that the "height'
of anything here

is soley within the province
of a 

pipe smoking amoeba.

Where my rude and rumbustious goes

your flat-footed elegance

no flipper to follow

ink is made
by grinding jaws and
jealous men of straw

the natural composition of snot
would make michelangelo weep
if he could but see

its inordinary components

priest of framing


John's gracious reply:


You're right! Halfway through I am thinking: these words are making me go *against* everything I desire! I only *think* I want the little hinge of the cricket song! I want robustious flailing and gruntings in the muck! I shall sculpt a man now out of snot!


And just for the record:

[an evening heart-to-heart between Dr. Lao and Mike

Dr. Lao: Mike, let me tell you something. The whole world is a circus if you know how to look at it. The way the sun goes down when you're tired, comes up when you want to be on the move. That's real magic. The way a leaf grows. The song of the birds. The way the desert looks at night, with the moon embracing it. Oh, my boy, that's... that's circus enough for anyone. Every time you watch a rainbow and feel wonder in your heart. Every time you pick up a handful of dust, and see not the dust, but a mystery, a marvel, there in your hand. Every time you stop and think, "I'm alive, and being alive is fantastic!" Every time such a thing happens, you're part of the Circus of Dr. Lao.
Mike: I don't understand.
Dr. Lao: Neither do I.