FILE FOR THE 22 PROSE PIECES



Dear Joj,

So it is you, and not Jewell, who is sending out the prose pieces. 22 to be exact. I like the title and it looks like everything came through okay, except for how the titles got separated from each body of text. Probably missed the 'enter' button as you maneuvered or broke the pages between each prose poem? I'll know best when I receive the hard copy, which will be the same as hard cider, or hard liquor. The real deal. The paperwork. Thanks for sending both, J. Never mind you having to prepare the ms., between one virus'd computer to a better mate's and completing the job. We keep saying to folks, like we owe stock in Apple, get a Mac get a Mac.

Like I mentioned before, I won't (but I will) get to reading until after Nov 5. or so. That initial date by you was put into my hard head and I won't be able to re-program any earlier. I read an essay yesterday on Ralph Nader where it was presumed much of his problem getting across with the new society we have is that he is too damn literal. He means what he says. As opposed to a million-billion out there who are white liars. The essay also dragged along and also presumed some of his other problems is that he has never had, seemingly, a sexual relationship with anyone or anything. No girlfriends, no wife, they can't dig up a hooker or even an under age intern or fawning school girl or boy fascinated by old greasy stories of General Motors, Corvairs or arcane environmental abuses.

No, I don't believe for a minute you are one of the white liars.

And perish the thought I am asexual.

Next week is consumed with doctor appointments once again, breaking in with a new dentist who I have heard is past thorough, tracking down snow tires, returning to 'Mad Men' (Midas, yes them!) because since I wrote that piece and our forceful letter of complaint to the corporate office, they have returned with a deal on a complete exhaust system that really can't be turned down. Do I now trust them? No. In fact I've just now at this early hour conjured up all sorts of scenarios where the one disgrunt foreman in there tosses in faulty pipe just so the system botches up by mid-winter. Payback is hell, and we limp back and ask, "So what's this?" Since August I have been rolling under the truck applying muffler cement to the catalytic-converter region with my fingers. The only tool. Quiet the beast.

I know you have no time for this lengthy letter, but I figure between Joj and Jewell it will be read.

We've been debating all week between us if we should head north this afternoon for a book sale in the town where Ken Burns lives. We've gone the past two years when it was simpler, Saturday morning, and no fee of admission. Suddenly it is at a cost of $10 each, in the evening, only for an hour and a half (Saturdays was spend the day with us) and it's all about the special occasion. This often comes with the special prices way over a literal person's head. It could be a bust that makes a rotten way to start off Halloween. It could force us, if the sale is zippo, to dress up and parade around in this faraway town with toddlers asking for candy. "Aren't you two too old?" will be the dominant question thrown at us. In fact it would be said in the tone that isn't at all a question.

This is a rather long letter of acceptance declaring your poetry manuscript has arrived and I will begin reading when I shut up.

You owe me a long letter one of these days which only begins to detail your shyest of secrets
all's well