September 27
Letter from Jack Spicer
Dear Mr. Johnson:
Through the gentle and waking-dreamed eyes of Kevin Killian, I have glimpsed
the little blowtorch you have held against their Faces. Against the feces of
my children. All fucking by Poets takes place in Hell. You will need to
learn how to write better. My enthusiasms.
I have also seen all of your invented letters. The ones from the living are
quite boring. The more interesting ones are from the dead. (Mr. Killian
does not know I am looking through his eyes.)
There is not much time given for writing where I presently am. So I will
tell you three things, and if you're smart, you will believe me:
1) The entire matter is a very complicated situation, more complicated than
you can presently imagine.
2) You are right about their burned or smelly faces, but that will never
mean you should not kiss the image of your own head.
3) The whole problem began, in a sense, with The Beatles.
Love,
Jack
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