———-
On Fri, Jan 27, 2012 at 2:57 PM, Aaron Belz wrote:

Michelle

- – – – -

Translation:
I do not send letters.
I do not send emails.
But
I will send you a letter.

- – - – -

Translation:
I believe in UFOs.
I see them everywhere.
They are red.

A mallow is an herb with palmately lobed
or dissected leaves and usually showy flowers.

In middle school a girl named Marsha gave me
a mallow because she had a crush on me.

We chanted “Marsha-mallow!” and made her cry.
Later, I crushed Marsha’s mallow down in the hollow

and swore I’d never love again. Still, I kind of
liked Marsha. She was mellow and regarded me

as a stand-up fellow. She once tried to kiss me
under a bower. After I laughed for an hour

she ran away screaming “Power! Power! Why
do men have all the power?” She came back later,

glowing, skirts flowing—she’d done something
wrong. “Wow,” I said. “That didn’t take long.”

All around us bunnies were bouncing,
peacocks preening. Then I wrote this song.

This is an eBook. You might consider saving it on your iPad, transferring to Kindle, or printing & stapling for basket next to toilet. Great complement to historical copies of Reader’s Digest.

This is timeless wisdom put in a brand new way.

“Please write me a novel in which things are
wonderful in the future,” said my new girlfriend,
then paused to adjust her skirt. She didn’t realize
that I’m a stevedore and don’t have a girlfriend
and besides, I live in Cleveland. I run a rat
show for the Ecuadorians while my invisible
butler serves them fake punch. It may sound
gimmicky but at least it doesn’t pay the bills,
nor does it pay off the ducks that have those
bills still partly attached to their horrifying heads,
though I wish it would, because then I might
get clear of the jackass duck mafia constantly
on my tail. “Please write me a novel,” she began
again, as if already revising, “in which,” but
then her words became soupy and depressing,
and besides, who really was she? At first I tried
to delete her from my phone, then called
a friend in Brooklyn at whose pad I’d crashed
not weeks before, and she suggested looking up
“girlfriend” in the Pictionary. So we began
communicating via hastily made drawings, first
of some dictators sitting at a bistro, outside,
in the springtime, one of them laughing,
saying, “Write me a novel in which the undesirable
ethnic other has been purged,” then the others
laughing too, and my Brooklyn friend guessed
“Hyundai dealership?” Uggh, I’m the rat man,
I can’t draw, I want to make things wonderful
for both of us but wouldn’t know where to start
even if I could write prose, my fine feathered
friend—or friends. P.S. Can’t get over that hat!

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Monster elevator tortoise-shell creamcakes.
Aaron who?
Monster elevator tortoise-shell creamcakes Belz.

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
System.
System who?
System of a Down.
Where is the Dream Syndicate?

u

.
Some Semblance Of

a

.
Activities

m

.
F

f

.
Our

r

.
As the Dude Ranch Owner Said to Her Diminutive Husband

p

.
M

t

.
I’d Buy It

z

.
Says He’s From Poughkeepsie But

9

.
I Just Coughed Up Some

Omicron

.