A year that begins in November and ends with October. Although you cannot meditate on fun, this book is clearly about that, I mean, the first poem even says so right there. But who cares about fun? Well, we all do. OK. But as with all recipes, one must add one and a half cups of grief, a pinch of Howdy-Do and a tablespoon of What Gives? and you have got yourself some good ol' time Butterscotch, and thus you got yourself a tome of donuts marriages, Hollywood dogs fetching bones near swingsets, Jalapeños Muchos, Marilyn Monroe at lightspeed, the word 'scythe' for some reason and a vaguely randy Emily Dickinson - blame it on the booze, I think - and more, for this honey of a door stop is close to 700 pages and is not for the faint of eyeballs or weightlifting - in fact, it is the ideal book of verse to carry with you in sketchy neighborhoods and to have by your side when you buy your own island and you need a softcover pillow on which to dream and stuff just like that. When I buy my island, Lord knows, I am going to buy one of these just like this, for you. I ain't lyin'. And I hope you enjoy it.
This latest work is far more casual in content than in times past, including letters not originally intended for publication, but upon review, the author thought: Why the hell not? Beyond the epistolaries, lotsa food, which is more usual, including but not limited to chocolate, pancakes, waffles, Milky Ways, sweet potatoes (or yams if you prefer), fish and plastic fish, Fizzies, Potassium Citrate, mangos, pizza, piazzas and chukkas, the latter of which you can only eat at times of extreme stress, but why you would do that, I don't know. If you know, send me a note. My address is: Ricky @ 105 Fidelity Street Apt. B-35 Carrboro, North Carolina 27510. Don't forget to include the apartment number. The mailman can get really testy if there is no apartment number listed.
One day I saw an old guy with a poodle a gas station filling up his gas tank, the poodle sitting patiently in the driver's seat as he did. It was a hot day in November, and the poodle was panting. I realized at this moment that it was my duty to write at least three hundred poems about it, and I did, and here you have them. As you peruse, though some of them may appear to have little to do with a gas station and a poodle, I promise you, in their heart, they are all in one way or another, are indebted to both for their creation. Also don't forget the old guy with the gas pump who lost his little hat. Love, Ricky
The 2015 poetry rev (Rev 2.015) contains many of the signature moves you might expect from Crispy: fancy foreign phrases, so-so ponderous philosophical enigmas, unbridled name-dropping in the extreme (Van Gogh and Henry James come right to mind), squiggly lines, Melba toast, the immortal Ford Pinto, Conrad Veidt and a variety of tasty chocolate desserts. Yet something new this year is apparent before you open the book: an illustration, a real one, by a wonderful young artist: Gus Svara. And once inside, you will discover the absence of a table of contents, and the addition of a much more sensible and handy Index in the back. So now when you want to read a poem that contains the word "UGH" or "amuse-bouche" (fancy foreign phrase) don't start at the beginning: start at the end! And please, continue on, in whatever cockamamie fashion you care to. We don't make the rules here, we just break them. Enjoy this rev, because, honest - this rev's for you. Happy reading, The Author FEH5313
This book contains the following words: kennel, murder, cigars, seahorses, volleyball, pinstripe, nutmeg, knee-slapping, hand-tinted, fez, 440, splendid, fudge, butterknife, fervent desires, moose, divorce, krinkle, mermaid, giant peach, gumball, mandrake, goddamn it, sweet potatoes, raviolum - as well as the following proper nouns: Wood Argus, Abraham Lincoln, McDonalds, Budweiser, Peter Lorre, Merv Griffin, Crisco, Ivy, Aunt Trudy, Carnation Instant Breakfast, Oobleck, Chateau Beaucastel and of course, Anne Fishbein.
A year that begins in November and ends with October. Although you cannot meditate on fun, this book is clearly about that, I mean, the first poem even says so right there. But who cares about fun? We all do. OK. Also add: one and a half cups of grief, a pinch of Howdy Do and a tablespoon of What Gives and you have got yourself some Butterscotch, and it means you got yourself a tome of donuts marriages, Hollywood dogs fetching bones near swingsets, Jalapenos Muchos, Marilyn Monroe at lightspeed, the word 'scythe' for some reason and a vaguely horny Emily Dickinson - blame it on the booze - and more. This honey of a door weight is close to 700 pages and is not for the faint of eyeballs or weightlifting - in fact, it is the ideal book of verse to carry with you in sketchy neighborhoods and to have by your side when you buy your own island and you need a softcover pillow on which to dream and stuff just like that. When I buy my island, I am going to buy one of these just like this. I ain't lyin'.
The traditional October to October Poetry Jaunt ends this year in June-why not? Prose has been knocking at the door for a while, and let's see who's there when we answer it. In the meantime, herein you can expect the tried and try awful Italian restaurants, bats that make you happy, Robin Hood meeting the school bus, Rock Hudson jubilantly climbing the Rockies, and sundry wistful notes and adieux to disappearing friends where love might be lost but sure as shinola is not forgotten.
10022 is the winter completion of the writings and letters of 2017. I mean, my writings and letters. In fact, I really like letters a lot these days, not mine necessarily, but letters and of course postcards are the best, especially the old ones which can be so tender. There is something so sad and wonderful about someone describing the weather in San Francisco on one sunny June day to someone in Virginia when you think "Does anyone remember this day? This postcard? This person?" Someone does, and that's the wonderful part: it is not us and we will never know. Will we?
Lunar fingernails and Eliot Ness has a pun for a wife. Saved by a man that only looks like Walter Matthau and donuts named after elegant British tea services. Funeral suits with bullet holes and New York City becomes a woodwind instrument. Pat Sajak answers in Spanish and lessons on how to spell the wind. All of this, and anything beyond it, dedicated now and for good to the eternal memory of the gentle Faye Hunter.
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