Letters to Wm Poole

(somewhere on The San Andreas Fault)  May 1989

Dear Wm Poole:

How appropriate yr letter arrives the day I take 30 screaming 5th graders to Bear Valley, backpacking trip, Wildcat Beach. Group slower than slugs in molasses (or beer). When they lay down in middle of road screaming, “I can’t go on” after first 1/10 mile, imagine how long it took to go 6.5 miles. Got chance to study lots of roadside geology. My kingdom for a cattleprod!

Very good: (#4) yr bullshit line, I mean. Yr letter made my day. However, many have graduated to decimal system: #6 follows #5, not another #5 (unless you’re William Carlos Williams, “I saw the number five in gold...” (hint) use both hands to count.

Speaking of WCW, the good doctor & poet who penned, “it is difficult getting the news from poetry/ but men die every day/ for lack of what is found there,” yr letter is hereby nominated for WCW 13 Ways of Looking at Cow(bull)shit Award. (You have 7 more to go—(hint: use toes too). 

Here’s a joke from a student: 

Visitor: Nice bunch of cows. 

Farmer: herd. 

Visitor: Heard what? 

Farmer: Herd of Cows. 

Visitor: Of course, I’ve heard of cows! 

Mother cows aside, that one mooooves me.

Speaking of slugs, glad you liked slug pix.

Tell you what, will do even better than remind you of next year’s event. Nominated you ill-ustrious judge-elect to screeming panel---always on lookout for fresh blood (meat). Am sure George Snyder more than delighted to hand over the position to like-minded colleague. (He was very squeamish). Think of it: ringside seat, a chance to make Omni and David Letterman Show (if you’re a slug, that is).

For this revolting occasion, think green (as in St. Paddy’s Day—you’ll do better to arrive in appropriate condition (your choice). Korbel champagne in mid-day sun simply murderous on hangovers). Some years, it’s scheduled before Mar 17. Others, after. Shit happens. 

DJ Reg Lester won’t forget when Banana Slug cream pie started crawling off plate and crowd howled “Eat it! Eat it! Eat it!” People will do ANYTHING to make the 6 O’clock News. Was brushing his teeth for weeks trying to dislodge slime from throat. Hey, we’ve lost some good judges—Hauser & Keene, gagging gourmands. Don’t worry about yer vernacularisms, malapropisms but do bring pepto-abysmal. Maybe we should nominate William Safire as well???

Am in the countdown process of putting together yet another kidbook of poetry and computer’s crashing right and left (Cold War? I’m blaming sunspots). My Apple IIc Plus has worms (moles??). Due date May 23. Feels like I’m making a rocket with paperclips and the clock’s ticking. So, I’m procrastinating.

Since you’re a man of the road, I am including a couple of poems. “Keeping the Dead...” inspired by the Pink Section & This World. I read the Punch & the Funnies too, whether I need the news or not.

Careful there, yr last epistol looking suspiciously like a poem & you know what happens when you make mole hills out of mountains—eat a lotta dirt to get to the heart of things. Missiles aside. Funny you should mention missiles. They’ve been coming up a lot in my poems. Enough of this missive. Happy Trails to you, or should I say, das Vdanya? Nos zdrovia is much more interesting. Water of Life, and all that. Don’t you think? (Last statement, a colloqualism, not intended personally).

P.S. My granny (who kept uisge in the shoe pouches of her closet) was forever pointing out cork oaks to me. Guess she liked the idea, living through Prohibition, and all that. Quercus. Corks ‘n Cows? Sounds pretty green to me. Was a bar/hardware store on Guerneville road called Bottles ‘n Bolts--popular with the weekend handyman set. Went belly up. End of an era. Now a gucchi-wucchi chocolate shop. Dipped strawberries anyone?

P.P.S. To see how I spent my summer vacation, get a copy of latest American Poetry Review (brown issue)....(hint) what do tear gas, Lima, coca leaves, laundered money & Ollie North have in common? Or how to take pix during a civil war? Shoot from the hip.

Dear Wm Poole: Febish @ 9 1990

How do you pronounce Wm? Sounds like a bullfrog filling in for the Fat Lady or practicing for spring training. 

I sure HOPE I don’t have nits—even if the family I was staying with in the USSR had to wash their daughter’s hair in benzine—Quell, etc. not readily available in the USSR. 

My friend’s father invented Quell and countless friends have profusely thanked the man... He also invented Sensodyne toothpaste. Not as much in demand as the former—especially during the 60’s and 70’s. Maybe now. I got a personally autographed case of the latter product from aforementioned man. What friends are good for... Wait till they discover in the year 2000 he invented denture cream!

Of COURSE you’re singled out for such split attention. I got a new copy editor who can quote from Strink & What. So I’m getting a crash course in the true joys of nitpicking. You’re not the only one who received fan mail. Blame it on the Moonies or something. 

I must’ve gone crazy on a comma binge on poems already typeset, much to an editor’s chagrin. A hysterical call from New York only netted my answering machine. The seven page letter he wrote included such gems, “While I’m not unaware of the joys of punctuation...” Something about commas sprinkled like spermatazoa across the page...

Between the two of you, my mail was a veritable Abbot & Costello “Who’s on first..” Never mind that one. Just let it slide. It’s too loaded.

OGODNO! Don’t give up being a journalist! Who else would I nail at every faulty mission from Dog (Dyslexic parsons arguing about theology). 

Then there’s the fun(d)raising dyslexic’s wife who, seeing his placard and tin cup, “Please help dailysex” who said “Let me help you spell that, dear!” 

And whose fault is that? Data. Data? We former art students called it Dada. You know, irons with nails coming out of them? A tire’s recurring nightmare: Somewhere on the road, NAILS!

It’s almost my favorite column...even if you have trouble with geography and can’t seem to get your copy in on time. Every other week isn’t too bad, considering your inability to read maps. As to other ficticious and literary pursuits, who am I to say no? Please note enclosed poetic license. 

Have also enclosed a Jo Bob Briggs interview for you. NOTE the Slugfest reference. Surely you’re braver that Jo Bob? Time’s a waistin (middleage spread on toast points). Well? Do you have the guts? Your editor is absolutely right. It IS a great idea. ("Editor" is the long word for God). Hey, you might make Omni magazine. Or are you a sudden vegetarian? (OYESSS!!! I HAVE THE CALLING) 

Um, yep, I too have left poor suckers wandering around lost in the woods. How’d you guess? As a kid I also introduced visitors to the first-time joys of poision oak and stinging nettles. We called ‘em city slickers, not journalists though. The last time I trusted a man with the topo map was April Fool’s Day, 1982. Needless to say, the date says all. Cold out there w/o a blanket! Took some innovation on both our parts to stay warm.

Back two weeks. Am still trying to recover from the USSR. Have reservations to kiss K Mart, etc. Went wild in the grocery store. $100 worth of snacks? I won’t tell you what happened in Macy’s, other than I am the proud new owner of a down quilt and two more pairs of boots. And am seriously eyeing a sheepskin coat & more longjohns. Spring Sale starts MONDAY!

I never knew I was a secret capitalist consumer at heart until I tried to buy boots in the USSR. I had to resort to the black market. The flimsy little California numbers I wore left me uneasy every time I stamped my foot. I was afraid of finding small toes rolling around on their own inside my boot. The thinsulite coat was exactly that, thin.

I now understand why women wear fur coats. It’s f’ing cold over there. I know your greography is a bit hazy—Leningrad is on level with Anchorage. Cherkassy (near Kiev) on level with Paris. There the similarity ends. Moscow wasn’t any warmer.

Alternative warmth factor: Try pop-starting a Jigouli (Soviet-issue Fiat by any other name) in reverse on an icy road at 6 am and your plane leaves at 8 for the thrill of a lifetime. We flagged down some poor drunken sot & hijacked his car. After waiting in line for two hours, Pan Am tried to bump us, erroneously saying, “no reservation, go to the end of the line & pay a late penalty please.”

Understand, after a month of cabbage (kilbasa shortage) I was a rather feisty contender for that plane seat. The joys of public tantrums. Pan Am was late. It took 36 hours to get to SFO. So we couldn’t get the Airporter home to Santa Rosa at 1 am. Joys of more public tantrums. 40 hours w/o sleep (or a bath) does not improve my normally sunny condition. 

Pan Am begrudgingly put us up for the night (what was left of it). My gray cells are rumored to be hovering somewhere mid-Atlantic. I only saw the sun once while in the USSR, and it was partially cloudy. I freaked when I saw all the blue sky. Hurt my eyes. Have enclosed a write-up on my project. Pass it along. Am looking for $, etc.

Re: C/O the Chron. No address on your last missive. If anyone at the Chronic “L” reads your mail, you’ll know when the jokes resurface in Siberia. Reminds me, speaking of newspaper magnets (of the refrigerator variety), on the way home from a CPITS mtg in Cambria, my ride dragged me thru Hearst’s “castle.” O my, something to look forward to. Joys of retirement from journalism.

Note bene: these old letters were locked away in obsolete file formats for over 20 years. I attempted a new approach to opening them—so this is the first time I've literally seen them since 1990. I'm publishing much of this material thematically since I can't create a blog that goes back to 1989—so Feb 2007, it is (though today's date is really 6/20/2011...shhh!) Sometimes it takes a while. At any rate, this makes me want to dig into the archives and find some of those old letters—Wm Poole's, of course (checkout his old photos at Legible Light—amazing)