12.17.95

There is no doubt, fine sir,
that your meanings far surpass
the scope of my inferences.
The original correspondence struck in
me a chord of recognition, a
tune of a note that spoke to
my recent feelings as to the
nature of my own writings, henceforth
referred to as "bloated empty silos".
Thus, my response to said correspondence
(watery.grave.com) was merely a small
potential self-reminder, a cerebral post-it,
if you will ( but I fear you won't) to
actually SAY SOMETHING. And, this realization,
having been caused by your poem, was
akin to a ship dropping through clouds, for
I had trouble grabbing at it with my hands
it moved so fast, and when it landed on
my head, or more exactly, IN my head -
it hurt.
I was intimating, quite clumsily I
readily admit, that I would prefer a
quick drowning to the useless tripe
dribbling out of what I have come to call
my ink-asshole.
It seems we share a certain emotion
concerning the written word, and would kill ourselves
off in liquid fiction for it. I envy your ocean as
I inhale the tepid soap ridden filth - drowning
in my own bathtub.
Please keep sending news from the front.
I hope this little misunderstanding will only
deepen our coffin of a literary alliance.

One who muses too long,
BO'M