Letter to Jack Spicer

Dear Jack,


Barnacles are complicated things. You delight in the strangeness of thick ribbed carbon laden shells, where I do not. Sometimes picking up a sand dollar off the ocean inter-tidal zone with barnacles on it is inspiring, but when I've looked closely, the barnacles were still alive and it bothered me. Unlike words floating into the universe of forever, these things smell. I don't think poems should smell.

Once I read a poem written by a poet I like about thrashing his wife. It really stunk. Speaking of stink, my pot-roast has a pleasant smell which indicates a certain doneness. Poems should smell done, even well-done. When released through sound they should fill the air and satisfy.

I find reading some poems to be like side salad. I do not get full. Sometimes I have to imbibe Lorca with a side of Notley or Bernadette Mayer. The airiness of the duende poems aren't as grounded as the cunt poems of Mayer. Eating some poems is more like an Atkins diet. When I read Whitman I stay full for days. Your poems stir me up sometimes and sometimes they are intoxicating.

Do you like scotch? The smell of scotch can be deceiving. Sometimes it smells like paint remover, but with a few drops of water, the sweetness is released. I try to stay away from scotch because like paint thinner, it takes the color out of me.

Barnacles on words can add layers of interest, inter-textuality and depth. On the other hand, sometimes the barnacles and chitons on words build until they distort the words. Poetry shouldn't be so laden with extraneous fauna that it collapses. It shouldn't be so spare that it wants dressing. Poems should approach the uncertain variety of sunsets.

Jack, thanks for listening, and keep writing sunsets.

Jesse