I met a rubber-stamp artist from
at the mail art conference in Tarpon Springs. His father was
a mullet fisherman. He gave me a rubber stamp of a mullet.
His girlfriend was impressed by all the mail art people who
wrote me. I gave her a copy of my book. She knew who
the movers and shakers were, and they spoke to me
like a member of the club. I had paid my dues.
I wasn’t Jane Fonda or Michael Jackson.
Oh, Mr. Carson. Tiny Tim. I was a freak,
I was Harvey Pekar on David Letterman.
I was Paul Giamatti in American Splendor.
I was Jean Shepherd telling stories on the radio.
I was an American original. The Madcap Titan of
the Dustbin, making art out of scrap, the only sane man
in
The postal-person-lady marveled at the decorated envelopes I got.
Or is it
My work went nowhere. Where would it go?
Why would it go there? I wasn’t waiting for Godot.
Godot was coming to me. In my mail box.
I was van Gogh and Gauguin’s Studio of the South,
Atelier du Midi. I never had to leave my writing room.
Except for side-trips to places like Tarpon Springs.
The ant’s a centaur in his dragon world.
Who was crazier? Ezra Pound
or Ernest Hemingway?