Scheusal

The wine will be pissed, the letters opened by a nosy postman who is also a foot fetish, and the dead’s poet’s words will be played through someone’s phone speaker and echo through the busy streets of a city the poet’s never heard of, in the vicinity of a two room space sometimes called Scheusal , a random place where letters are sometimes delivered, a place com- parable to a box of shredded wheat, a drunken comment, a big piece of paper, a shadow meaningless except as a threat or a communication, a throat.

Or maybe the city did enter the poet’s brain? In another of his letters to James Alexander Jack Spicer is filling the silence of an answer failing to come, writing about spring, about countries and about words invented by an authoritarian post officer called Mr. Still-Water-Run-Do-Not-Walk-To-The-Nearest-Exit, that one must obey because he knows the way letters and objects move.