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2003-07-19 I have decided to write letters to Poetry every month concerning the dismal state of the magazine. The inaugural one reads as follows: Dear Editor, You would do well to heed the words of Namby Scatbird, the editor of Famous Salad. (You might wonder how he happened upon the name Famous Salad, maybe you are even a little jealous because it is so inventive and sensual, unlike the name of your magazine. Well, he was watching the highly esteemed cartoon Arthur one day. Arthur is supposed to be an aardvark but what the fuck ever, he lacks both the distinguished, bugle-shaped nose and the muscular, hog-like body. ANYWAY, Scatbird was watching Arthur and he had the closed captioning on because he wanted deaf people to know that he was sympathetic to their deafness and also because closed captioning is hilarious. So Arthur said “cole slaw”, and the closed captioning, assuming that deaf people do not eat cole slaw because no one can tell them what is in it, substituted the phrase “famous salad”.) He once wrote, “If you don’t have anything decent to print, don’t print anything at all.” Love, Not-A-Finger P.S. I hear that Annie Sprinkle has begun writing poetry in her old age. I think you should solicit from her BY PHONE. She has, not surprisingly, taken Sharon Olds as her mentor. P.P.S. That was a lie. It is actually Marlon Brando who has begun writing poetry in his old age. He has, not surprisingly, taken John Ashbery as his mentor. P.P.P.S. That was also a lie.
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