Schuyler to Mac Low
 
Jack Kimball

 

Jimmy writes, You have a vast human feel, like a Boston museum. You'll do. You're always on message.
You recharge the batteries. Bless you. You're my waterworks relying on your own resources; that's why
coming here makes you shine and project something like a genius boutique, you know, like Pixar sprinting
in the filthy footprints of "Toy Story." You're the global soul of a three-person organization. You, me and
who? What a lovely surprise, you're giggling and sadistic. Your mission is clear; you're a fairy prince in
disguise piercing enemy lines, seeking sanctuary.

That doesn't sound right now, so you turned my house into a honky-tonk. You ignore everything I tell you.
May I take out the italics around "blap"? -- on second thought, you're wearing baggy shorts and a loud T!
Sometimes this works in your favor. The sky pressure scents diffusing; this is the place we grew up,
starting in a light sensation marshaled over the property; you remember the air has the outer above, wings,
the bubble places, the blue, matter. And you repeat the same day now thousands of times.

Since you've been here you've mostly written one long poem. That's my theory, anyway. I ran a spruce
splinter, and each day the poem gets longer. Most afternoons you're a plucked, chipped shadow. Yup,
headlong clouds but you want to move on to the next party. Trembling, mind-alteringly forgiving,
your language more powerful than words. (Beastie tree.) Why won't you cuddle? Rackety lights, a streak of
kitcheny white, exposed nerves, with assets like these you'd think we're doing your job as well as you.
Come here and meet all the members of the team. Ok, on a rising note we'll pause for a second, so you can
feel sorry for yourself. Sleep is everything to us. Can you start right away? love,