Spicer This Is Not a Trilogy

Dear Spicer,
    I don't want to make poems at all. The lawn was a mistake, because it is a lawn. The writer is nothing but a temple in collapse. Poems should break out of the ether. There is no ether. How about the newspaper? Poems should break out of the newspaper and— fucking I don't want to say the sky. Do you know the moon? She is sweet, like they say, right? Are you feeling me? I get excited I cut myself this morning my middle finger I wasn't shaving I was shopping it was morning but it was lunch I was Stop n Shopping I felt so dirty I felt clean at work in my office chair. How cliche. There is no I in imagination. Poems should break out of the newspaper incomplete and whole and falling around I cut my finger. Sans I.

Dear Spicer,
    You and Lorca both tried to be free of shadows—in the Platonic sense. When poets, or anyone, start talking about Platonic shadows sliding along cave or bedroom walls, it makes me want to watch Fox News. It's not like listening to Clinic's "Internal Wrangler" in the mystery of one's own kitchen, which is like an orgasmic experience you can have even while mashing potatoes if you have the volume high enough, you should be alive the vocals are audible the guitar is genuine as a hard on if this were a poem the sound would be one of living stones climbing up a hill and the sun from a shorter distance suggesting a gurgling of salt water drained from one hell of a pulchritudinous ass. If shadows don't decay they consume their creators and join the work force.

Dear Spicer,
    When you wrote to Lorca that "Things do not connect; they correspond," you meant "Things do not correspond; they connect." That is what makes it possible for a poet to translate real objects. That is why I agree with everything you say which is otherwise an unhealthy spot to be in. Time in Spain is time in California, and yet it's not. Time in a lemon, that is a real poem. The poet is not the lemon. The poet is the air. You knew the poet is not a real object, coy bastard. Many years ago in a classroom far far away an inorganic teacher was discussing the Bible as literature I believe it was the Psalms my faith was shaken when the red-headed gorilla-jawed boy behind me handed me a scribbled lyric joke "Squeeze my lemon till the juice run down my leg" my faith in a world where things do not correspond I completely forgot about till now.

Dear Spicer,
    These letters do, then, correspond, I guess. They correspond with only the dead know what and perhaps some future poet. It's true what they say, poets always, even at their most nihilistic, always assume a future. Just like Johnny Rotten screaming "No Future" at a bunch of faux cynical children, the future is assumed. That is how we dead men write to each other.
    Bone garden lithograph,
    Yours in context,
    Scott