Day 17: Steal With Permission

Dear Jack Spicer--

What kind of radio stations are peppering the air these days with their static sermons? I find myself thinking about poetry more than I ever dared. Even the hillsides are screaming in greasy orange poppies and erect purple lupine. Or, the tin roofed barns leaning on their weak legs. When are you going to stop staring at the froth of a drunken sea to answer me? Take for instance the sky. All it's blue laughter and secret messages etched in contrails. Is that where your telling it? Or in the sound my bald tires make crossing the bridge into day- guh-gunk, guh-gunk, guh-gunk. Are the words whispering in the eucalyptus leaves stolen with your permission? Or are the trees speaking in prose? You are dead and the dead are very patient, but I am not. Let that single white swan split the lake like a lyric. Let what spills out be truth.