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<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:blogger='http://schemas.google.com/blogger/2008' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005" xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192</id><updated>2024-03-23T14:09:04.831-04:00</updated><title type='text'>The Lettershaper</title><subtitle type='html'>I Live, I Will Die, I Will Not Be Remembered.

</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default?redirect=false'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><link rel='next' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default?start-index=26&max-results=25&redirect=false'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>171</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>25</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-2910586160838565830</id><published>2024-01-07T14:03:00.005-05:00</published><updated>2024-01-07T14:05:21.783-05:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'><p>&nbsp;Hey Mitchell Roth; if you ever come here anymore...comment and let me know you live.</p></content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/2910586160838565830/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=2910586160838565830' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/2910586160838565830'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/2910586160838565830'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2024/01/mitchell-roth-if-you-ever-come-here.html' title=''/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-3398443336158847480</id><published>2021-03-25T22:48:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2021-03-25T22:49:20.811-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>THIS IS WHY I WRITE said the Gods, unaware that his/her/its memories were missing: and so we write; we wish we wrote, wish we took pens with us to bed, covered our blankets in paper, filled our pillows with ink and rearranged our dreams in terms of consonants and syllables and meter. We miss ourselves in memories of ourselves; we ache for what we have not yet known, could not have yet known, but still yet know: words remember; language remembers. Everything that we remember and all that we cannot remember is all a memory of the same silence, the same nothingness, a chain of memories that is tethered to us and dangles from nothing. And so we write. THIS IS WHY I WRITE. And the Gods begat a Son, and a Daughter, and another, and another. The words are already remembered; nothing is ever truly formed or created or learned, only recalled. Memory preexists. And so we wish we wrote, wish we could write, knowing full well that nothing is ever truly written. I/we acknowledge the silence as much as the silence is personified and takes on my/our shape. We are all silence. THIS IS WHY I WRITE. Because the Gods, posing in Charlie Chaplain still-frames, are not the photographers. This is why I write. We are all memories of motion, of noise. We are the memories of each other. I/we remember in silence until all that is left is the silence, the holes and torn edges between what our bodies remember and our minds remember and our hearts remember. Our hearts collectively stutter, then still as breath is measured, accounted for, counted on to convey messages between us and from us. This is why I write.<br /><br /><div><br /></div></content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/3398443336158847480/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=3398443336158847480' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/3398443336158847480'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/3398443336158847480'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2019/05/this-is-why-i-write-said-gods-unaware.html' title=''/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-6328121675509041499</id><published>2021-03-04T03:11:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2021-03-04T03:11:13.416-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Funeral</title><content type='html'><p><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #999999; font-family: times; font-size: x-large;">&nbsp;She wore a red dress to your funeral,</span></p><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #999999; font-family: times; font-size: x-large;">standing straight and straight-faced<br />alongside of your black clad family.<br /><br />She didn't seem to notice the sharp stares,<br />or feel the stinging sneers,<br />and when the Priest glared at her she glared back.<br /><br />It seemed a long time that we all stood there,<br />sneaking glimpses of red,<br />stunned into silence by such bold grieving.<br /><br />Finally it was over and she left,<br />weaving through the tombstones,<br />spilling blood among the polished marble.</span></content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/6328121675509041499/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=6328121675509041499' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/6328121675509041499'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/6328121675509041499'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2021/03/funeral.html' title='Funeral'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-4617191113836970000</id><published>2021-02-05T02:58:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2021-02-05T02:58:00.964-05:00</updated><title type='text'>And In The Beginning; Lava Lamps</title><content type='html'><p>&nbsp;When I was seventeen, the world was a psychedelic oyster...everything flung color; bright, boisterous shades of flourescent orange and scream green, purple haze (Ha Ha) and sunshine yellow.&nbsp;</p><p>Nothing was dull, and nothing was still.&nbsp;</p><p>It all twirled and swirled and sprung in twisting masses from our every object; even our T-shirts seemed to move. I like to think that the person who invented all that ass-kicker acid was just looking for some way to quiet it all down and it back-fired...we used to drop window-pane at Andy's house because he had blacklights in his garage; we would pour Tide washing powder on the floor and trip over its phosphorous contents twinkling through our little piles of detergent...it would be a couple of years before I would learn a few other uses for phosphorous.&nbsp;</p><p>Yeah, those were simple times; I should have paid more attention to them, I should have ate all that color so I could've spit it up later when it would have really meant something.&nbsp;</p><p>Lava lamps were the shit; you were nobody unless you had one in your room...and the cool moms had them in their dens. Joplin and Hendrix ruled the world, the Dead guarded the gates.&nbsp;</p><p>The Stones had just hit the states and everyone hitched to all the best concerts...all the girls wanted to blow all the bands, all the guys wanted to be roadies. Nobody ever did, of course...that was for the kids from California who were lucky enough to get backstage passes; the closest our little southern contingent ever got was sixth-row center at a very memorable Joe Cocker gig...we knew all the words to 'Bathroom Window' and never missed a beat.&nbsp;</p><p>We thought we were so cool. Just as good as those west coast kids. Plus, our pot was better, we were certain of that; we grew it ourselves...no infra-copters back in the day. Fifteen bucks bought a five-finger bag of prime red-bud; ten more got you a sole of hash to wrap it with. I miss that stuff. Nothing beats a good hash milkshake...and later on, nothing would beat a good dose of smack; pot would become just foreplay, just something to keep the jungle bugs at bay while we sat and waited for the movie to start...and that was the thing; if the horse was hot enough, you could get away with pretending it was all a Fellini flick...for a few moments, anyway.&nbsp;</p><p>And sometimes that was enough to get you to the next day.</p><p>It's a good thing we didn't know what was coming, I think most of us wouldn't have believed it if we had. The summer of sixty-six was winding down, the acid was turning into to mescaline, and Janis still had four years to live...longer than a lot of my friends.&nbsp;</p><p>Nam was just a blurb on the TV news, the body counts during dinner were still a year or more away, and body bags were for the bad endings on Dr. Kildair. Some of us had brothers or cousins or uncles and dads pulling their time already, but nobody we knew up close and personal had gotten killed or even shot...not then. No one was protesting in earnest, not in our little corner of the planet, and all our teachers were talking about how it wasn't even a war, for christ' sake. Nobody seemed too fuckin' concerned...not then.&nbsp;</p><p>Only our mothers looked worried; but they always did, so we never really noticed. And when we did, it was too late...High School was over, no money for college; all of us country boys had gotten our invitations by the time the spring of sixty-eight rolled around. Only Andy made it out; his dad had an aunt in Winnipeg and the next time I saw Andy he had three kids and a suit...he acted uncomfortable when he shook my hand; but it was OK, it was his folks that made him go...</p><p>&nbsp;I guess. It WAS your folks, right, Andy?</p></content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/4617191113836970000/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=4617191113836970000' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/4617191113836970000'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/4617191113836970000'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2021/02/and-in-beginning-lava-lamps_5.html' title='And In The Beginning; Lava Lamps'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-1426959163104038564</id><published>2021-02-05T02:57:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2021-02-05T02:58:58.323-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Can You Hear Him now?</title><content type='html'><p>Been thinking about Andy again, he's starting to come and go like a cliched ghost; and I seem to be sittin' up with the dead.</p><p>I haven't seen him since his dad died twelve years back, and we all went home to Catawba county to say goodbye...all of us that were left, anyway. We made a pitiful bunch, actually; hand-me-down suits and thrift store ties. All of us but Andy, who had done well in Winnipeg and wore a three-piece like an honest-to-God businessman.&nbsp;</p><p>He had spit in his hand and passed it through his hair while we stood around the casket talking about how good his dad looked. Some things never change. That's funny, isn't it...how everyone always seems to think folks look so damned good when they're dead. I'll bet the dead ones don't think so...I'm willing to put a few bucks on the fact that they would probably rather look like shit and be able to tell you about it.&nbsp;</p><p>I know for sure that I want to look terrible when I get to lay on my satin; and I hope all the people that come to stare at my corpse have the good grace to say so. I don't want to die handsome; it seems like such a waste. And I don't want to be laid out all dressed up...I've left word that I'll haunt anyone that tries to pin those fuckin' medals on me.&nbsp;</p><p>I really don't believe a whole lot in God or Heaven or everafters; but whatever is waiting for me is just gonna have to take me like I want to come...wearing Levi's and Hane's cotten. And no socks, please; it's a thing with me. Had a lot of jumpers here lately; maybe that's why I've been thinking so much about Andy. You know, him jumping the draft and all. Word association and such...I've heard it can work like that.&nbsp;</p><p>Anyway, four jumpers just this month; two off the Tar River bridge down at the rocks and two more off the I-95 overpass. The last two were a real fuckin' mess...shit everywhere. It took us the better part of a morning to get all the bits into our little red bio-bags...every scrap or the state boys get pissed. Can't leave anything for the public to see, when wer'e done, the Fire-house pumpers come in and hose away the spots.&nbsp;</p><p>And these two had took their dive together, holding hands like goddamned love birds, said the bewildered witness who had called 911 to report the incredible event on his cell phone. Can you hear him now? Hardy fuckin' har har.&nbsp;</p><p>By the time we got to the scene, he (The witness) was talking to the cops with his attitude showing...he had done his duty and now they were going to make him late for his tee time; he didn't PUSH them, for christ sake. It would have been more interesting if he had...nothing new about suicides.&nbsp;</p><p>All I ask is that they get it right the first time so I don't have to work so hard...it's way harder to try and fix them than it is to just scrape them up. One thing is certain...no one will be standing around these two caskets speculating on how good the deceased look; these two are gonna fit in a shoebox.&nbsp;</p><p>And I say bury them in the same one, size seven ought to cover it. After all, it seems they wanted it that way...just ask the pissed-off golfer who saw it all. I can hear him now.&nbsp;</p><p>I love my job.</p></content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/1426959163104038564/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=1426959163104038564' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/1426959163104038564'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/1426959163104038564'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2021/02/can-you-hear-him-now.html' title='Can You Hear Him now?'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-117837639194706861</id><published>2021-02-05T02:39:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2021-02-05T02:39:11.468-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Hey, Tinkerbell</title><content type='html'><p>&nbsp;Hey,Tinkerbell,</p><p>come on back from never-never land.</p><p>Peter's long gone, fell in with the wrong crowd&nbsp;</p><p>on his way to find Wendy- he's history.&nbsp;</p><p>All the little lost boys got together and went uptown,&nbsp;</p><p>maybe you can still find one or two along the strip,&nbsp;</p><p>if you want too.&nbsp;</p><p>And after all that, Hook just blew the place;&nbsp;</p><p>why hang around looking for trouble at a dead party?&nbsp;</p><p>He might even have found Wendy,;</p><p>the two of them shacked-up in some other fairy tale.&nbsp;</p><p>So anyway;&nbsp;</p><p>hey,Tinkerbell-&nbsp;</p><p>Come on back from never-never land.</p></content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/117837639194706861/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=117837639194706861' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/117837639194706861'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/117837639194706861'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2021/02/hey-tinkerbell.html' title='Hey, Tinkerbell'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-3167775864766623049</id><published>2021-02-05T02:11:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2021-02-05T02:11:00.130-05:00</updated><title type='text'>My Aunt Lucy</title><content type='html'><p>&nbsp;My Aunt Lucy had big blonde hair that wafted around her head like the sticky silk of a drunk spider.</p><p>My Aunt Lucy wore her skirts too short, violating the public with fat pink thighs thicker than her waist.&nbsp;</p><p>My Aunt Lucy drew her eyebrows on, and painted her lips with vaseline for a seductively greasy shine.&nbsp;</p><p>My Aunt Lucy wore six inch spike heels that made the fat pink thighs look like cold pork popsicles.</p><p>My Aunt Lucy wasn't allowed at our house, but she always gave us new case quarters whenever she saw us on the street.&nbsp;</p><p>My Aunt Lucy died when I was twelve; somebody saw the cold pork popsicles sticking out of a bin somewhere.</p><p>My Aunt Lucy got her name in the paper, the sisters chipped in for a longer skirt and buried her in the back end of the yard.</p></content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/3167775864766623049/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=3167775864766623049' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/3167775864766623049'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/3167775864766623049'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2021/02/my-aunt-lucy.html' title='My Aunt Lucy'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-8680286198324566096</id><published>2021-02-05T02:09:00.004-05:00</published><updated>2021-02-05T02:09:24.516-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Thoughts While Reading The Obits</title><content type='html'><p>&nbsp;She would die at Twenty-Seven, learning to fly from a ledge.&nbsp;</p><p>But we didn't know that when we were eight, we chased endless days down to dark;&nbsp;</p><p>summer dripped time thick as honey.&nbsp;</p><p>Hours spent at nothing, tilting at windmills in our best mindless fashion.&nbsp;</p><p>Summers shifted when we were thirteen, honey grew thin,time ran faster;&nbsp;</p><p>we left our youth behind and lost each other on the way to our lives.&nbsp;</p><p>She would die at Twenty-Seven; but we didn't know that when we were eight.</p></content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/8680286198324566096/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=8680286198324566096' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/8680286198324566096'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/8680286198324566096'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2021/02/thoughts-while-reading-obits.html' title='Thoughts While Reading The Obits'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-6195055979977069485</id><published>2015-07-18T20:05:00.002-04:00</published><updated>2015-07-18T20:05:16.189-04:00</updated><title type='text'>View From A Flying Jimmy</title><content type='html'>Listen: hounds loose their run trill reveille behind the lines<br />of white pine and cedar and elm that guard my seclusion.<br /><br />I pretend I'm dreaming-then I am-waltzing with Jane<br />barefoot and ballgowned through a wood: music howls<br />somewhere beyond the gray, somewhere in the black.<br />So I oversleep and wonder when I wake why my feet are ice.<br /><br />I fly to work down back roads that turn suddenly<br />into streets miles from my driveway graveled and<br />tucked between menacing rows of black-hulled pecans:<br />they bear on the third year and I keep their fallen ancestors<br />packed naked in blue tupperware tubs stacked in my freezer.<br /><br />The cockpit of my jimmy is strewn with dead coffee cups.<br />Jack-in-the-boxes lay discarded and dying on the floorboards<br />-similar slaughters of necessity-ketchup clotted to their sides.<br />Last month's cable bill flaps under the visor like a battleflag.<br /><br />Tobacco whips by on the left and on the right so fast<br />each leaf on every stalk stands out in surreal base-relief.<br />I taste the sharp and bitter tang of suckering plants:<br />it reminds me of my father's pall malls and politics and<br />the smell of money seeded from blood.<br /><br />Barn swallows rise-in lazy tourbillions-from the fields<br />their beaks and bellies full of yellow and green hornworms.<br /><br />I wing past Buck's BBQ Pit (You Can't Beat Our Meat)-past<br />Lucy's Do-Lounge where the girls serve more than shots<br />-past Big Jim's Quick Mart: the stoner kid who pumps gas<br />raises a hand in reflex. I don't wave back in sympathetic apathy.<br /><br />Most mornings I stop to kill coffee cups but today I'm late.<br /><br />Tenant houses rush by on either side, their concrete blocks<br />painted with Kudzu and mildew: I think of abattoirs and<br />oubliettes and other inevitable exits. Children and dogs and<br />cheap molded toys from the plastic plant over in Elroy dot<br />the tiny dirt yards-little boys and little girls stand in stagnant<br />ditches chunking rocks at death while their mamas are inside<br />fucking the mailman or watching General Hospital on TV.<br /><br />I see slide show flashes of their faces and I hope I don't<br />have to come back out this way: scrape them up, heads<br />cracked open, futures frying on asphalt like so many eggs.<br /><br />I pass the city limit sign-some of the holes are mine-ringed<br />in rust and canted to one side. Courthouse looms right,<br />county buildings lurch left and blocks ahead day meets night<br />where tracks split the city: segregation in iron ties old as time.<br /><br />I pull into my lot-number six, section twelve-filled with cars<br />and trucks and bikes but I am the only flying jimmy.<br />Everything ticks: engine, watch, pulse-alpha papa charlie-<br />the people that mill outside my windshield tick with tension.<br /><br />I want to turn the key, turn around, turn into my driveway<br />where squirrels sit stuffing my sweet meats in their jaws:<br />instead I clinch mine-name rank serial number-open the door<br />and step out.<br /><br />Listen: animals sprung their cages snarl in angry unavoce<br />behind walls of brick and steel and glass that guard nothing.</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/6195055979977069485/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=6195055979977069485' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/6195055979977069485'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/6195055979977069485'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2015/07/view-from-flying-jimmy.html' title='View From A Flying Jimmy'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-4243443236597335059</id><published>2015-07-18T20:00:00.004-04:00</published><updated>2015-07-18T20:00:39.752-04:00</updated><title type='text'>The Semite-Anti</title><content type='html'>I knew a Semite, once-<br />who was anti-anything that wasn’t<br />his own concept, or concepted to his own<br />intimate reality and you would think that a Jew<br />would know a thing or two about tolerance;<br />about the consequences for the lack of it<br />or at least realize the danger of narrow roads<br /><br />yet he rides a bicycle around<br />his university town, because the chance<br />tuning of a classical station once led to Domingo<br />singing to angels, eating bread where the road<br />got narrower still; the pleasant shock turned car<br />into flaming tree along the landscape littered<br /><br />highway to Barnes and Noble,<br />where he goes to find his roots, goes to cry<br />over CD’s sang in the mother tongue; the notes<br />dripping like the snapped strings of guitars-<br />sometimes as he leaves, he feels he can walk straight<br />through the brick walls like gamma rays but<br /><br />he pedals instead, home for dinner;<br />a fish sup of mackerel displayed on his counter<br />like the art of poetry lays upon the page and he hones<br />his knife on the sharpening wheel; slits the white belly,<br />removes bright innards, washes the gutted carcass<br />beneath tap water as cold as the Aegean sea-<br />as it boils within the gray water of domesticity<br />he knows that later he will write of it, for writing<br />is a noble task and he is nothing if not noble<br /><br />and after, he sleeps; and as he sleeps<br />he dreams of apples; falling apples, forbidden apples,<br />the apples of paradise that an old woman bids him<br />not to eat and then his mind shifts and he is standing<br />among the broken pieces of Palestine and Greek sculpture<br />that lie in silent discord at his feet, the feet of the elite<br />athlete who in his youth slapped decathlon ass<br />while shit smeared his hands and he thanks God,<br />thanks Jehovah for the privilege and then he wakes-<br /><br />just another forgotten old man<br />with dried spittle in his eyes and on his lips,<br />the cupboard stitches in his scalp tingle, mingle<br />with the fluttering remnants of fucking the Venus De Milo<br />while dream-Nazis cheered him on, their dream-faces<br />set in sybaritic leers so he draws a bath to cleanse<br />the night sweats; dives beneath its warm surface<br />like a submarine -hard, true- and emerges flaccid,<br />limp as the pink mackerel dinner and somewhere<br />in the back of his mind he wonders who will grieve;<br />who will sing the liturgical dirges for him.</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/4243443236597335059/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=4243443236597335059' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/4243443236597335059'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/4243443236597335059'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2015/07/the-semite-anti.html' title='The Semite-Anti'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-649181212962947102</id><published>2014-10-09T12:46:00.004-04:00</published><updated>2014-10-09T12:49:59.840-04:00</updated><title type='text'>I Am Not</title><content type='html'><b><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;">I am not an artist because</span></b><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">Erich smokes Marlboros.</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">he wears a cherry jacket and cherry socks,</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">a ghost shirt and ghost sweater,</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">and carries the box of Marlboros.</b></span><br /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b><b>Erich, lying on my bed, spills blood and snow</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">on my raspberry and coconut spread,</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">smoking.</b></span><br /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b><b>So I paint the picture.</b></span><br /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b><b>And the critics say "whatsa matter kid,</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">you don't got no other crayon</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">but red?"</b></span><br /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b><b>I am not an artist because</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">the strange boy has a fat neck.</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">He wears the same shirt everyday on the bus.</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">From the collar grows a neck</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">wider than his head.</b></span><br /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b><b>So I split the neck and head on paper,</b></span><br /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b><b>and the experts say "there ain't no one</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">looks like that why</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">dont'cha draw flowers?"</b></span><br /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b><b>If Erich smoked Salems</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">the portrait would have been balanced.</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">The heavy red and white</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">would have been blown apart</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">by a mentholated breath of color.</b></span><br /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b><b>The critics would have said</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">"This carnival of rainbows combines the</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">double enjoyment of a striking portrait</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">and today's pop art."</b></span><br /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b><b>If the boy, instead of a fat neck,</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">had been given big, round eyes,</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">the portrait would be seen as a charming face.</b></span><br /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b><b>The experts would have said</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">"This visage expresses the whimsical fantasy</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">of a child found in an adult's face.</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">His warm eyes thrill us</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">with a 'je ne sais quoi' sensation."</b></span><br /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b><b>I am not an artist</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">because the critics and the experts</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">do not understand that truth is beauty</b></span><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b style="background-color: #444444;">and beauty is truth-</b></span><br /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b><em><b>Acknowledgement to J. Keats.</b></em></span></content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/649181212962947102/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=649181212962947102' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/649181212962947102'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/649181212962947102'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2014/10/i-am-not.html' title='I Am Not'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-1205476523516831195</id><published>2014-10-09T12:41:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2016-07-17T18:20:16.935-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Buddha Theory</title><content type='html'><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>Asked what he was,</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>Buddha replied "I am awake."</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>I sleep, I don't sleep.</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>This morning, I search for a headache</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>because that pain would be an equalizer.</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>I watch weed, I smoke the weather;</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>Sidharta watches from his shelf,</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>a cold ceramic face that never moves.</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>He oversees the pull of necessity,</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>then the slow push of nirvana.</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>I know that all night, he has watched</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>the water trouble and turn.</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>Once, in a physics class,</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>I explained to a professor, in his language,</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>that G times EM into I was theoretically nothing</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>to a theoretic me; that I was just a microbe</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>whose outcome was probable- a vibration</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>through fluid, a string of membrane stretched</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>across the light of everything.</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>The professor had tapped his meerschaum</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>against his heel and told me that the space</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>for my grade was to small for him to identify.</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>This afternoon, I lay</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>on a plush red divan in the back room</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>of a store-front posed as a fish market</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>and let a vietnamese man massage my thighs;</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>he pressed his palms against my theoretical knees</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>with each fluid stroke of his hands.</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>I watched in a mirror hung above our spot,</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>tried to convince myself of its reflective nature.</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>I turned my head to avoid myself,</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>but Buddha was there, perched on the sill,</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>his gold face painted with a smile.</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>I just settled back into red,</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>a constant relative in my fixed background,</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>and wondered if he smirks like that</b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #444444; font-size: x-large;"><b>while the water rushes its angry banks.</b></span></div></content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/1205476523516831195/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=1205476523516831195' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/1205476523516831195'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/1205476523516831195'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2014/10/buddha-theory.html' title='Buddha Theory'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-1298214333273198670</id><published>2014-07-02T00:17:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2014-07-23T12:28:04.778-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Fade</title><content type='html'><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;">I lie on my back</span><br style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;" /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;">where land draws up,</span><br style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;" /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;">forced into bank</span><br style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;" /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;">by a river that has its way;</span><br style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;" /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;">water troubles and turns,</span><br style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;" /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;">a slow diminuendo like</span><br style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;" /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;">the fading of old scars.</span><br style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;" /><br style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;" /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;">Movement in the shelf of sky</span><br style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;" /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;">is only a loss of light,</span><br style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;" /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;">a bone moon reveals its face</span><br style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;" /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;">along a scarf of cloud.</span><br style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;" /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;">Heat bears the night electric,</span><br style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;" /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;">chalks tree against slate</span><br style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;" /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;">in skeletal bas-relief.</span><br style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;" /><br style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;" /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;">I watch the set of day</span><br style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;" /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;">cast valley into flame,</span><br style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;" /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;">the silence of sheathed wings</span><br style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;" /><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #cccccc; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 33.599998474121094px;">leaves a stir of italic rain.</span></content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/1298214333273198670/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=1298214333273198670' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/1298214333273198670'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/1298214333273198670'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2014/07/fade.html' title='Fade'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-3198062435534450414</id><published>2014-06-30T20:44:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2014-07-05T05:18:49.911-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Validation</title><content type='html'>This mind turns on its axis.<br />Continuous thought uninterrupted<br />by the vicious sleep of reason,<br />breeding Goya's monsters in ground fertile<br />with preconceived knowledge.<br />The grease of time speeds the spin.<br />Disoriented, weak against the chain,<br />links of assimilated concepts layer like brick.<br /><br />The whirl of intellect births ideas.<br />Intrinsic contemplations on a mental screen,<br />infallible doctrines speculate<br />on suspicions whispered to living rock.<br />This mind trips on unearthed reality.<br />Forgotten voices speak for themselves,<br />startled hands bring pen to paper,<br />validation stains the page with creations' mistakes.<br /><br />And I hear the scream as I write the words.</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/3198062435534450414/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=3198062435534450414' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/3198062435534450414'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/3198062435534450414'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2014/06/validation.html' title='Validation'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-8366048193573085116</id><published>2014-06-30T19:59:00.002-04:00</published><updated>2014-06-30T19:59:24.038-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Logic (A Rare Ryhme)</title><content type='html'>By my hearth I've often sat,<br />and curiously wondered at,<br />the circumstances of my current state;<br />how it is I came to be<br />such a hardened, jaded she,<br />laughing at the irreversibility of fate.<br />Quick of wit, a learned mind,<br />taught to mingle with my kind,<br />if I only knew just what that meant;<br />I only know I won't conform<br />to what is the considered norm,<br />so does this mean my tree is slightly bent?<br />I never asked to run the race,<br />they can't make me stay in place,<br />the way I live my life is unaccepted;<br />and so I ask, with heavy heart,<br />if my free will and I should part,<br />would all I have accomplished be respected?</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/8366048193573085116/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=8366048193573085116' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/8366048193573085116'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/8366048193573085116'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2014/06/logic-rare-ryhme.html' title='Logic (A Rare Ryhme)'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-1046362601819831776</id><published>2014-06-29T03:49:00.002-04:00</published><updated>2014-06-29T17:18:35.157-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Invitation</title><content type='html'>They haunt this place. Invisible footfalls dance,<br />they rise in ghastly ballet; grotesque arabesques<br />against bone-colored walls, murmurs without voices.<br /><br />Low laughter ripples beneath flesh, crackles along a dead line.<br />Strange shades waltz beyond the corners of perception,<br />twirling to a spectral band; the sweet scent of Mignonette<br />an undefinable presence, it's decay lingers on the air.<br /><br />Revenants in party dress, their passage kisses the skin;<br />they whisper close, seductive invitations to the dance.</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/1046362601819831776/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=1046362601819831776' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/1046362601819831776'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/1046362601819831776'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2014/06/shall-we-waltz.html' title='Invitation'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-540100493668967745</id><published>2014-06-26T03:17:00.003-04:00</published><updated>2014-06-26T03:17:50.202-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Good pussy</title><content type='html'>My cat purrs<br />like a dick-whipped woman;<br />fat orange tom, his cream stripes<br />run through my fingers<br />in spermy ropes.</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/540100493668967745/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=540100493668967745' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/540100493668967745'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/540100493668967745'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2014/06/good-pussy.html' title='Good pussy'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-502559812596841368</id><published>2014-06-26T02:37:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2014-06-26T02:41:32.915-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Milk And Chapstick (Edit)</title><content type='html'>She used to be Viola, cornfed daughter of dirt.<br />Baby fat blonde jumped the nowhere bus,<br />bootlace flapping, gritty chapstick in her pocket<br />pasteurized milk in her daddy's scotch thermos.<br /><br />Fate est. 1977, she walked away on rooted feet,<br />now she shakes a disillusioned ass at a titty palace<br />called the Maraschino Cherry; screaming red walls<br />full of glaring Warhol and polite bouncers in suits.<br /><br />The clientele speaks of Paris, of summers spent<br />at Archipelago de Colon in knowing voices.<br />It brags like a regular Studio 54, but it's just another<br />downtown hard bar, the regular fakes licking Kismet<br />from squares of cellophane, faces pulled in passion.<br /><br />The stage pops and snaps, the crackle of charged air<br />makes her think of the spark chamber she saw once<br />at a county science fair, when she was still Viola,<br />baby fat blonde the crowds called Sapphire,<br />because it was spelled out behind her on a backdrop,<br />sputtering tubes of violent blue spitting static at her back.<br /><br />She sways on rooted feet, runs a dry tongue over drier lips<br />and thinks of chapstick, of warm milk in a plaid thermos.</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/502559812596841368/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=502559812596841368' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/502559812596841368'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/502559812596841368'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2014/06/milk-and-chapstick-edit.html' title='Milk And Chapstick (Edit)'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-2674370273465386708</id><published>2014-06-20T17:54:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2014-06-20T18:04:21.281-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Colors</title><content type='html'>He sits in front of &nbsp;Bea's Corner Store<br />(another shiftless nigger)<br />a perfect Rockwell<br />by the rusted Grape Nehi sign.<br /><br />He hand-rolls cigarettes,<br />ponders the color of a God.<br />He hears cicadas buzz<br />in harmony with memories<br />of when it wasn’t wise<br />to look daylight white men in the eyes,<br />because they might come to call at night.<br /><br />Now old, those men pass<br />on their way to buy Bea’s shine;<br />they call him by name as if they’re friends.<br />He wonders what they choose to forget.<br /><br />On Saturdays, little white boys<br />drop their battered bikes,<br />head into Bea’s for colored popsicles.<br />But he needs to see them colorless,<br />and can’t help wonder<br />what they’ve already learned.<br /><br />He has heard of the change bought<br />with the blood of those more bold,<br />now he’s too old, too tired, too black to care.<br />So he nods to all, while he appears <br />to focus on a patch of oil that darkens the asphalt,<br />and stains the scent of Gardenias in the air.</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/2674370273465386708/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=2674370273465386708' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/2674370273465386708'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/2674370273465386708'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2014/06/colors.html' title='Colors'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-6297379672819049771</id><published>2014-06-20T17:07:00.003-04:00</published><updated>2014-06-20T17:15:02.211-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Illusion</title><content type='html'>I like the way I look in car mirrors<br />if I'm on the side and it's dim through the glass<br />or I look in the lighted one on the visor,<br />over my school-marm glasses<br />right after I put on honey lip balm.<br />It's easy to pretend it's not me,<br />the distortion creates beauty where there is none,<br />not like walking down short halls with flamingo legs<br />above everyone else in the sand;<br />this is an Irish face, flat and squash,<br />mirrors add dimension like a photograph from a autopsy<br />but in the end, they usually find the body in the trunk.</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/6297379672819049771/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=6297379672819049771' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/6297379672819049771'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/6297379672819049771'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2014/06/illusion.html' title='Illusion'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-8604523379145782523</id><published>2014-06-20T16:54:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2014-06-20T16:54:25.088-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Dead City</title><content type='html'>The city is haunted,<br />filled with the shuffling dead.<br /><br />Someone's nightmare broods<br />on the rim of my waking sleep;<br />it wears a man's clothes, a child's smile,<br />and it leans, a malevolent slant,<br />in the recessed doorways of periphery.<br /><br />It moves by me down night streets,<br />past buildings like tombstones.<br />Gutterplates and cornerstones <br />bear names of the irrelevant doomed;<br />anathema writ by those who came before.<br /><br />Now it's ahead, tripping the dark fantastic<br />along the edge of my watering lid, <br />a lurid writhe in rhythm to the hiss of my mind.<br />It beckons, silent coos of seduction,<br />drawing near the cold press of it's regard.<br /><br />The city is haunted.<br />Winds keen through barren streets,<br />pushes past buildings like watchful crypts,<br />scatters faces on the skittering strains of a howl. <br /><br />I see it beyond,<br />someone's nightmare dancing with my own;<br />one mad ghost entwined with another.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/ReJnS7dweMI/AAAAAAAAAKU/5iI5iZcCAPo/s1600-h/deadcity.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/ReJnS7dweMI/AAAAAAAAAKU/5iI5iZcCAPo/s400/deadcity.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5035700908251445442" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a></content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/8604523379145782523/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=8604523379145782523' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/8604523379145782523'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/8604523379145782523'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2014/06/dead-city.html' title='Dead City'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/ReJnS7dweMI/AAAAAAAAAKU/5iI5iZcCAPo/s72-c/deadcity.jpg" height="72" width="72"/><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-6167986948742840716</id><published>2014-06-16T23:34:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2014-06-17T01:30:11.285-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Where It Goes</title><content type='html'>My fear has nothing to do <br />with God teaching me lies.<br />We wore painted masks<br />representing faces,<br />the bless-us formula and linear proofs <br />holding the house together <br />like a dime-store novel spinning <br />its tale in a drug store <br />that doesn’t exist anymore.<br />No matter how many times you move <br />the same shadows fall down the stairs;<br />you watch as the newest star<br />to come out of the consortium<br />dances above their heads while<br />we spread our tale across the gods’ table<br />before asking them to show us<br />where it goes.<br /><br /></content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/6167986948742840716/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=6167986948742840716' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/6167986948742840716'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/6167986948742840716'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2014/06/where-it-goes.html' title='Where It Goes'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-104969653182597326</id><published>2014-06-15T21:54:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2014-07-19T09:28:57.420-04:00</updated><title type='text'>You knew I'd call it Chartreuse.</title><content type='html'>I was looking on the web<br />like I'll do to keep my mind from dwelling<br />in a petrified wood that it shouldn't<br /><br />I came upon a place devoted to Chartreuse<br />which turned out to be<br />a French liqueur made by monks<br />and aged with 130 kinds of herbs and flowers<br />it all sounds so simple<br />uncomplicated<br /><br />and I just like the word<br />CHARTREUSE<br />of course I know it; what it is,<br />have seen and heard and even used it<br />but never really thought about until today<br />when I saw it in a slender, nondescript bottle<br />such a cool green beckoning...<br /><br />yes, that's it, beckoning;<br />calling me to Chartreuse mountains<br />where holy men gather herbs and flowers<br />until they count 130<br /><br />and I read later<br />that some songwriter somewhere<br />Tom Waits, I think it was;<br />had said that Chartreuse was a whiskey so good<br />they named a color after it.<br /><br />I once had<br />a shot of color like that.<br /><br /><br /></content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/104969653182597326/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=104969653182597326' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/104969653182597326'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/104969653182597326'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2014/06/you-knew-id-call-it-chartreuse.html' title='You knew I'd call it Chartreuse.'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-7156546307216471316</id><published>2013-09-21T06:30:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2020-08-05T21:20:16.020-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Sand and Smoke</title><content type='html'>There are things carved in relief. Like the skeletons of churches, a sub-rosa apparatus beneath bone. I am always drowning in marrow. Decision tips an hourglass; what was sand is smoke. She got her first tattoo in a shop on second street; a kite that ribboned its tail around her wrist. Years later, a diner in Trent; a backwash of Bakelite and teak. She smoked clove cigarettes, lips drawn in stitchlines. We questioned, teeth to skin, reflections in a third eye; images fell from an iris' edge- impressions lost in the drift. Borromean dropped a ring, what was left was crossed. Behind a heavy door, a kite with a faded tail identifies the wrist. A man in a smock with sleeves too short for his arms traces its marbled flight; beneath his palm he knows every scar is a victory. </content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/7156546307216471316/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=7156546307216471316' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/7156546307216471316'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/7156546307216471316'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2013/09/sand-and-smoke.html' title='Sand and Smoke'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-8517633777670112330</id><published>2013-07-16T17:41:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2013-07-16T17:44:55.278-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Hail Mary</title><content type='html'>How's your faith these days <br />Father... <br />Does it lie dead, dismembered; <br />the masticated pieces spat at the feet <br />of your stained glass Gods? <br />Does it choke your private sanctuary <br />with the stench of decayed hope?<br /><br />How's your faith these days <br />Father... <br />Does it hang heavy, cold against <br />the collar; a bloodstone Rosary <br />strung on veins of attrition?<br />Are confessions sold in confidence <br />to cast the Judas cross in tarnished silver? <br /><br />How's your faith these days <br />Father... <br />Does it have the sweet persuasion <br />it once had, or has the hypnotic drone <br />of the doggerel lost its melodic allure? <br />Or is it all finally a figment <br />of the contrite collective; blind masses <br />drawn to fat candles lit by weary wanderers <br />to illuminate the path to salvation? <br /><br />How's your faith these days <br />Father...</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/8517633777670112330/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&postID=8517633777670112330' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/8517633777670112330'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/8517633777670112330'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2013/07/hail-mary.html' title='Hail Mary'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry></feed>If you would like to create a banner that links to this page (i.e. this validation result), do the following:
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