Funny Business
A Special Edition of The East Village

Kent Johnson

September 27

Letter from Jack Spicer

Dear Mr. Johnson:

Through the gentle and waking-dreamed eyes of Kevin Killian, I have glimpsed the
little blowtorch you have held against their Faces. Against the feces of my
children. All fucking by Poets takes place in Hell. You will need to learn how to
write better. My enthusiasms.

I have also seen all of your invented letters. The ones from the living are quite
boring. The more interesting ones are from the dead. (Mr. Killian does not know I
am looking through his eyes.)

There is not much time given for writing where I presently am. So I will tell you
three things, and if you're smart, you will believe me:

1) The entire matter is a very complicated situation, more complicated than you
can presently imagine.

2) You are right about their burned or smelly faces, but that will never mean you
should not kiss the image of your own head.

3) The whole problem began, in a sense, with The Beatles.



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