“I think WHITE HORSES was my attempt to create something that might possibly make all these bad things better. Like I could weave a safety net out of words. Like I might be able to save what little I still had. I think all these desperate factors together created a sort of poetry.” -Doug

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Letters to its Editor

Sunday, July 25th, 2010

“Dear, sweet Jelly Smithson:

It seems as though the great state of Indiana, while contemplating its many dead sons–maimed by bayonet, vivisected by grenade–grew a massive erection that turned out to be, as Bob Dole has since proven humanly possible, permanent. Ten stories high and topped with a dead sailor. O! how adored and adorned. What could be more patriotic?

I’ve been told by the butler to inform you that your mother expresses her deep love to you, Smithson, but it’s also been expressed that that love comes with a grain of salt. She knows where you come from and is unimpressed with its yeasty proclivities. But, you know, kin is kin. She’ll cherish you to the end, you disgusting, disgusting thing.

Flourish your burger like a barbecue chef flourishing his burger.

Delightedly,
–Marcel Proust”

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