To Whom It May Concern

Dear _______________,

I fear you have gotten the wrong conception of my dwelling probably overmuch upon the salacious side of a trout you have been serving the hoi polloi these past twenty years or so.

So you sent me a picture of yourself on The Corky Farm, and I sent you a picture of myself on the Corky Farm, and suddenly you think we are going to what? Run off and play Corky together? I saw you had a name tag on in your picture on The Corky Farm. The name you had written on your name tag was a lie. How like an expressionist Romantic constructivist bullshitter like yourselves.

I discreetly blur out my nametag in all photos of myself on The Corky Farm.

But it is my real Corky name.

That is de rigeur Corky etiquette.

What do you think image manipulation programs were invented in the seventeenth century for anyway?

I fear you are deeply mistaken if you think I was not admiring your extremely long prosthetic and yes, I could see where the magic joinery was finished in Photoshop. They didn't kick me out of politics for nothing, you know.

Abu Ghraib 101 is my Baskin-Robbins, sweetheart.

Still, why are you clinging to this image of my sorrow, as though you could resurrect me by what? shaping poems with words which are tiny and complicated as some form of pasta whose name nobody can remember?

No, not fusili. The other one.

You will always hold a very dear place in my esophagus and in my caecum, which is blind as a bat. Possibly my jejunum also.

But we simply must not continue in this manner. I am a married woman and every time I play Madame Bovary it ends with me at Home Depot looking for a plastic siphon for the grief. They are placed very high in the store and the ladder is very humiliating.

And you?

You jiggle the handle instead of fixing the constant running on the toilet of the Eternal Verities.

What this has to do with your turgid fucking you will only guess too well.

But then it is neither my place nor fate's to provide you with ample indices of your own malice towards the Obedient Heart of Futility.

Do you know what cocaine does to the chihuahua heart?

Really? Do you?

Well, I feel that I have spoken my mind and that possibly in another incarnation we may well end up rolfing buddies.

But in this matter, you must trust my discretion in nailing your hand firmly to the stuffed elephant you tried to give a man ten years my junior on Thursday.

I have my sources.

And there is nothing worse than a squirrely existentialist, and Handsome Dog, you are that.

Adieu

& bisou-bisou,

Wm.