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May 10, 2015

Photo on 5-10-15 at 2.34 PM

Last month I (Creed J Shepard) went to a poetry fair at the Lawrence Arts Center.

It reinforced for me, albeit with more than a touch of resentment, my belief in the work of this press. And I did manage to sell one copy of Reinventing the Third Wheel to a fellow poet whose sprawling observational at times baladeering poems he recites from memory.

Raymond Hall has been going to the 8th Street Taproom Reading Series for a long time and I’ve always been intrigued by his work and him as a person (reluctantly, I accept that the two are related).  He offered  to purchase it with his chapbook “but it’s dawn”, from (Feral Geezer Press).  This began a correspondence by mail.  I received his work, which came accompanied with a note, in which he told me I was getting the better end of the bargain.  I thought that was his way of saying he didn’t like my poems, but I now realize that Enduring Puberty Press has found a true participant in our larger mission to develop epistolary art, to engage in inpermanent medium of pen,ink and paper.  Below is his letter he wrote in response to my original response.  I didn’t review his chap book, but will say that I enjoyed it.  For your literary consumption here is his letter.  Observe his awesome use of punctuation and his insights.

                                                                        FRIDAY , MAY 8, 2015

Dear Creed,

     I got your welcomed letter day before yesterday, the 6th: it took a shamefully long 5 days for your letter to reach me; and both of us live in Lawrence; and is she for sustainability advocate; recently, all Lawrence generated mail goes to Kansas City for processing.

     You may know by now I don’t have a cellphone, or computer, and my typewriter is a retro-portable manual typewriter (look closely at the type in But, it’s dawn.

     Before I moved toLawrence, in June, 2011, in Prescott, Arizona, no one thought much about this [illegible], but it’s fore fronted in this town where among the [illegible] “phones” is technophobe.  And white people here are at it, they also notice I’m a troglodyte!  Sounds alarmingly like troll, doesn’t it?  Although the root words for these two are from far-distanced languages, both mean cave dwellers.

      On top of these Lawrence-dubbed bad tags, I add, by way of a fuck-you thumb nose, “feral geezer press” for my vomit press.

      I meander.

     Anyway, inspite of decaying postal service in Lawrence, I’ll not likely forgo letter writing.  It’s far more fun than email.  (Which I confess, I tried once, briefly, in Prescott, Arizona, and gave up when I soon tossed my new laptop, never getting another.

     A.A. (Another Anyway), going to the post office and choosing from the post office’s comprehensive selection of recently printed stamps is an adventure.  Writing letters is as good as writing thrilling poems.

     Taking letters to the mail box for the mailman to take is a trip.  Last, but not least, at all, is pulling letters from the mail box, opening them with a long sharp knife (not to mention the excuse to keep long, sharp knives laying around).  And then reading those letters, analyzing the penmanship, enjoying the subtle character insights hinted by the paper used, choice of envelope, even choice of stamp! (You watch basketball, likely play it well.)

      I even like junk mail, it’s colorful ads write creative cons.

     If you want to visit, I’m home most of the time.  Please phone me on my land line at [phone number here].

     If you want to visit me here, at [address here], please phone ahead (gives me time to hide my current limbs in the closet.)

    It would be too big a problem for me to visit you; I’m a cripple and don’t drive.

   I serve fresh Columbian coffee or black tea for the politically correct.  Hungry? My corn meal pancakes are wicked good.  Served with apple butter, joey and even real butter?

                          Best wishes,

                                              Mr. Hall


From → Epistles, Poetry

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