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The other day a friend wrote to me, actually wrote me a letter, and being the kind of person who actually bothers to read the letters from friends I read the following lines, which I believe to be poetry, and wondered at my friend.  At the end I could not tell if he was being indulgent, whiney, or else incredibly profound.  Whatever the case I transcribed the letter and have published it here for all the world to see.

I do hope you enjoy.

–Joshua Jammer Smith

 

A Declaration of Sentiments and Desires Culminating in Fashion, 9/?/2016, 1:07 A.M.

I would really love to write for the New York Times,

I would love to write for Harpers,

I would love to write for the Times Literary Supplement,

I would love to write for The New Yorker,

I would love to write for Esquire,

I would love to write for Ms.,

I would love to write for The Atlantic,

I would love to write for Playboy,

And I would love to write for The Washington Post.

 

It would seem that I would love the write for those literary halls where I might secure the bubble reputation of those who craft the belles lettres and all that fashionable thinking prose that seals the legacies of gods.

 

But such is that and none of that for me.  I will linger in obscurity, and, like Prufrock, wonder at the mermaids who sung songs for other men.  But for my youth,…

Ah, but there is none of that.

 

I am destiny’s forgotten son.  And I would love to write for you, for you is me, and that’s all that I can ever be.

 

While I wrote this two lamps were on.  I was wearing my blue tweed blazer with the elbow patches.  I was wearing Batman pajama pants, and a scarf around my neck.

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