I like this a lot, gar. I think it reads well on the
page- well,it did for me, first read and last, and I
think it would also work well as a performance
piece-it's construction a captivating combination of
detective work and the very types of mundane &
mysterious deceptions it sniff out. Feels borderline
conversational,too, which leaves me feeling a
contented audience member. And the irony is
paradoxical as Spring because, at once,reading, it's
an intimate sharing *and here and there,knocks you for
a loop. The height of my personal knock, due to my
personal interpretations, was reconsidering the
familiar to near mundane and mysterious idea you
introduced around here:
_____________________________________________________
I'm thinking there is a poem in it.  After all, there
is a poem in
everything and anything.*
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Soley as a mystery,adding the touch that the speaker
insinuates,that this pome might not really be a poem
in almost the same breath...i had to sit up in my
chair and take a deep breath. If you're Not seeing
this as a poem, may I just add one last bit and quit?

I *start* a detective story about twice a year because
i share creative space with someone who Loves
detective stories. One really has to hit to get my
attention. I can't remember the last one I read all
the way through, just that it was a short story. This
reminds me of a "postcard" of the sorts I see in
berevity circles. It's so there.
 Thanks for a great read. My mailbox is full. I've
been writing. And he board reads to me like there's a
gremlin or two in the system somewhere. For instance,
this e is the last in my mail. Unless I've finally
lost it, this is Wed...
and no mail since Monday? hmmmmm.
later
calaya
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Sunday evening, March 28th, I spend writing most of an
essay on Ed McBain's
Fat Ollie, a character introduced in his last few 87th
Precinct books.
Ollie is obese, slobbish, rude, obnoxious, and a rare
bigot - he likes no
one, but in the hands of McBain over the course of
several stories, he
becomes a delight to read for he is also a brilliant
detective.
I'm not, so foolish as I might be, I left the file
open last night and lost
most of it - the file full of machine language, odd
fonts and even Japanese
script.  I've been having trouble with that "bleeding"
for sometime and
thought I had it fixed.
But today, the slower detective deduced that he should
close files at night
and save often.  And, now, the poet - used to shorter
reconstructions - must
reconstruct several pages of prose.
I'm thinking there is a poem in it.  After all, there
is a poem in
everything and anything.*

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