Franco Beltrametti
Dear Jack Spicer
I watch with curiosity and surprise faces bodies words
as you know I write you from outside San Francisco
and other objects surface from the past, float towards
some 4 hours drive east
a crowded place called future, while sitting
I dont know how patient you are
on a bamboo chair in a basement
but I know you are dead
the starry Berkeley winter evening is the present
Groucho Marx said he would never enter a club
plans & tickets always need adjustments
that would accept him as a member
the ghosts the poems were written for
so it is January and I am alone
cannot hear the noise they have been making
I greet your small vocabulary
regarding past present and future
that lamp that horse that continent
1-7/1/75