Certainly, now, I saw the raindrop famish

WHO Charlie befuddled for the price of paper,

how tongue can be a juicy bauble for the duct—

unless, and by tumblestone mouth, the word,

by face, increasingly clay, thumb-kneaded oyster-

flesh, implicates the word in dissolution. Slow

child spited by Newton, dared take on, and daring

fell from, sea-sway and postman's round. Abashed - the clown -

he built a lexicon for his sphinx to perch in,

fleeced the intricate chattel urges of the gods—

a laurel on Keats' imbarrassed punctuation.

I fear Hunt in his slattern's vale, I fear hee drove

his plough-line so the sofa was enough for mind

to tackle; you'd blush, so and so be laurel crowned,

and yet bufuddle yeoman, seaspray, postman's round...

but still your nib turns beauty up, and truth turns-tail

and smiles. So why the gordian cavalcades, why

the porcine pomper of your cerebellum? You

have braggaccioed your learning to the natives,

the natives in their wisdom cry: our world! our ships!

O Maenads of Gloucester: gather your stones—let fly!

Projected Letters kindly agreed to published Charles Maker's inscrutable attacks on an inscrutable poet, who demands the purchase of a big book to accompany his big book of poems in order to stand any chance of getting the ALLUSIONS. But he would like to note that he has a deep respect for Olson, and reads him almost every day. These poems were born out of frustration with forking out 100 bucks on books just to get the damn guy a little. I love him though.