The fairytale is a traditional form significant in its artful capacity to alternately mask and reveal dynamics of power and desire. It leaves its traces in the hidden messages, warnings, auguries, rants, citations, footnotes, obscure references, commands, translation effects derived from techno and house music, skipped beats and irregular rhythms, annoying rhyming, projective fantasy, sheer nonsense, redundancy and noise of legalese and police interrogation in the following prosoid stanzas.
My Dear Nice my dear Neptune Dear Son Dear Tip of the Dawn and Pencil of the Sunk Dear and Dear Person Who is Always about to Stand Trial Whether It is Apparent or Not Dear Echo in Experience and Dear Daughter Dear Water Light and
Hair Dear Justice Plus Injurious and Dear Air and Finally My Dear Receding Horizon Limit and What No One knows including All Who Shall be Forgotten and Dear that Who Befriends and Other Recipients of These Epistles, it might take an effort
to discern which sentences now belong to whom.
Shall this be kept a secret? I mean what is then aimed at others.
And who are we separately?
Dear me, (I am writing to myself as well). A diary falls open and we are in it together! Did you know? A drawing on the margin shows our divergent BODIE molded in the form of a ball, the mythic work of a precision machine I believe
No, not that. It’s the work of an exacting artist last seen escorted by Square Pusher through the entrance to electronic parts. Yes, What No One Shows, I can NOW almost read your thoughts THEN but ask you to nevertheless consider. An outline of a fleshy
Grasping Hand1 on our paper-nowhere seems to be positioned in the direction of that image, the ball made of us I described to you. I described to you I described to you the ball made of us described to you I described to you the ball made of us
My Piety Punched. Who is never confused. I’m throwing you a bonus, a ring to the tone. What no one will hear but. Is that not the m-m-message Who Is Always About To Stand recorded? What no one will hear but? But you? Yes Yes Dear Prison Sentence
It was just as it had been explained: the language was not convicted whose tongue was not confected Dear Prison Sentence. A candied sentence is intended as a gift, to be swallowed in an abstract social arrangement sense and Dear Traipsing
Weather when the tape plays back freeze in the after-breeze of a pelting rain Memory trembles with soft corrections. Statutes harness documents again. With punctuality, sounds wearing crash helmets slip out with punctuality, memes
wearing crash helmets slip out of symbols dressed up with punctuality dreams wearing crash helmets slip out of symbols dressed up in DNA: what No One shows, it can NOW. Burrrrr, cold. NOW proceeding
from these actions—speaking, stroking, sleeping and slipping, recalling, traipsing, irrigating, and time wasting—we derive the regulations for Intelligence that clarify (after the 13th c. concubine Lady Nijo’s Confessions) time management among
“Our hard working
The innocent’s cut
Rootless [flowers] though you are (Nijo), Salute! –when an event is never here or when it is in jury’s ear. A midnight stranger arrives again at the bedside cradling Porthole to the Spill in her arms. The phantom was near your bedside too
And one of you knows this.
And some of us are yet-to-meet.
Do you recall when we opened the diary a second time the Profile of Note had been redacted? Is this not a mystery No One has time for? Is this not a mystery No One has time for here? Here a Dying Song shells obdurate therefore. Consequently
a criminal lineup makes an arrangement cut on the bias of mass incarceration. In a maze of cookie-cutter houses, there are stories 2 B told, Dear Hair. Lock up!. Is this not a mystery No One has time for? Or is this Not a Mystery No One Has Time For?
There is city in the country and country in the city too.
Dear Next to Be Tried.
Was that you arriving from the Township with a new drop of white hearts? Then the cop was the robber and the robber was the crop. Redactions took place in the summer and fall. A round item crowded with figures in a tangled mesh might
conceal an impression. Who knew? And can’t tell. Turnips remain silent in the urban farm. Echo primes a lyric: In the summer and fall, we’ll nourish your spring. Will the nourishment get to you? Postscript: Seeking good souls above reproach and the
delight as well as complexity of communion somewhere in the labor.
Yours as ever. Dear Next. Play the game trademarked
It’s a Game. Win the game and pay it back. Now. Lawyers move to the next. Screen
glowing in Anasemia. A moth slides on a blue moon. Next a witness is dismissed for dreaming blood type O. Everything once was as clear as Iceland, according to Feral Pencil’s Stalemate. That sly one has turned child’s play into a problem for Poets!
“Even the silliest dreams exist as foam”
which gives all that we’ve conjured just in fun
an objective requirement: accurate aim and a tree frog
Either True Blue, swaddled under the spank of Northern Lights, crashed into a symbol stained on the parchment of mesmeric thyme or a spun gun is a knife stolen by rhyme. (Dolls echo and toys mimic). Be my infant. Just pull the string!
“Erroneous content” is the opinion of the courts while ships! Blister with truth, truth up to its knees in a pond. Dear Tip. Nature burns its image into the face of old weapons. At dawn you are who you really are and others a little less so. Dear
Brevity, there are more shadows in those time slots than anyone can ferry in a letter. (You sly one). And the sentences have yet to be dollied out, our dear Reseeded Harvest. Sometimes one must speak for oneself alone. Who is Anyone or A. Sun.
Dear Maudlin Recollection. You are who you really are and others a little less so. Pitched voices swirling “around Ferrand’s ears repeat meaningless jumbled words and confused tones.”2 Dear Warmer is it hotter than me. Wait. Then get it on. Oh,
frame that sentence switched for rushing streams, steamy air, climbing daisies, flora that grows so high you have observed blooms resting their heads on shields raised against Anyone. Nobody’s nature plus nurture thesis is burned onto the face-weeping
drone. Big Babies shred light over the spilling-over. Please do not repeat, whining dog! Stay. A little longer. Drone Babies Army shreds light over the pranks spilling over onto banks slurping up houses, hurling promises across surfaces that had
once been immune from creative destruction. Then, the true canine of floods went with people to Earth. Nature itself amplified Ferrand’s perceptions of the jumbled worlds, whether these were anomalous or merely rumored. Dear Provider,
The sentence is yours for a hush. A Quill should exact something from a joyous person, even as we have recently arrived at the point where one of us appears to be dead and impossible to trace. Might I pause? The sum is
greater than the total of
its blind alleys.
Nulling and Voiding reach deep into the grab bag of mechanical activities. Signing off and waiting for Girls Gone Vinyl. Yrs, Snagged. P.S. “This waiting will not go to sleep, however many times it has been buried”!!
P.S. “This waiting will not go to sleep, however many times it has reached deep into the grab bag of mechanical activities and Snagged. By Yrs. Waiting for GGV and high growing flora facing outwards. Dear That’s Foam, we recommend: deliver the diary
1. “A child grasps at everything to find out what it means” (Ernst Bloch, “Much Tastes of More” in The Principle of Hope).
2. Ferrand is a character in “The Symbol,” a chapter in a fairytale novel by Amelie von Helwig. In it, he is guided by the female spirit Welleda into a womb-like region where he loses his orientation. The allusion to male sexual inauguration and the womb space of mystery and knowledge in von Helwig’s tale has seeped into an anti-narrative writing in which the female author identifies with Ferrand.