G. Matthew Mapes
An Abandoned Storefront
Whereas, MI
T (734) 335-7053 (disconnected)
M (734) 756-8590
gmatthewmapes@yahoo.com
gmapes@emich.edu
Professor Emerita - Department of Slavic Languages & Literatures
University of Michigan
3040 Modern Languages Building
812 East Washington
Ann Arbor, MI 48109-1275
Dearest Bogdana,
I hope that this letter finds you healthy and well rested. I can only assume that your recent retirement has opened many new worlds of experience and opportunity, and that these, and these alone, are responsible for your alarming lack of correspondence. Has it been a year? My memory fails me. Alas, I am a wreck here, in Erika’s past, and I’ve long since disposed of my calendar. Regardless, I must ask of you, at this most crucial of junctures, to extend me a favor: Lend me your familiar eyes, so that we, together, might look upon a cold, perplexing request: Create a new genre of prose.
(Wait. First I should confess that I’ve not yet been able to raise the autographed original copy of Hermes, Dog and Star that was promised you in the aftermath of our last collaboration. However, I assure you it is here, somewhere in these stacks of milk crates that serve as both my makeshift filing system and precarious shelving unit. Soon, perhaps even tonight, the discovery will be made, and I shall then, with great haste, have it delivered to your door. I am, as our beloved Mallarme once was, “late for you”. I am conspicuously stamped “For Services Rendered”. And I am, in light of it all, advancing.)
Rob Halpern, arrived this autumn from Paris, has charged me (of all mendicants?) with the task of committing as Bertrand once did; as Baudelaire and Rimbaud. A new genre? Another? Have we not already received and incorporated the finest gifts of prose? Are we not the better, the wealthier, as a result? This is how I am plagued, by insubstantial candlelight, this past poor week. This is how he mocks me. I am at an end.
To make things worse, my advertisers (yes, I’ve foolishly pre-sold advertising space) have begun to turn the proverbial screws. As a matter of fact, just this morning, my postal delivery woman kicked me square in the solar plexus. And, as I writhed on the ground, struggling for my breath, she threatened to “cancel (my) service”, tossing the day’s mail into my contorted face. The situation, I regret, has grown dire.
So, please advise at your earliest possible convenience. As you must realize by now, I am beyond desperate. But I am, and will continue to be, forever indebted to you; forever in your service. Tell me: How might Herbert have handled this trickiest of propositions? Oh, if only I could be Zbigniew now. Instead, I am alone, starving, and nearly frozen.
Sincerely yours,
G. Matthew Mapes
❊ ❊ ❊ ❊ ❊
(“I” might propose that:
It would be left-aligned. It would be single-spaced. It would feature no indentation. It would offer no indication of paragraph. There would be no standard narrative. There would be no title. It might influence the lawmakers of its day. The only punctuation featured would be the period. It would be made up of simple statements. These simple statements might or might not feature allusion. It might be left in place of a suicide note. One might be inspired to erase it. It would feature almost no imagery. It would be plain. It might be the one thing you find you can’t live without. It would require your full attention. It would drift between tenses. It might feature time markers. It might be seen as an “event”. It would cross fact and fiction. It might be mistaken for a piece of correspondence. It might be burned to create heat. It would feature no definitively identifiable characters. It might be utilized as a tool by an elitist faction of publishers. It might be stacked like used newspapers. It would make a good statistic. It would be within parentheses. It would make a good dessert topping. It might be designated by an ellipsis. It might be ignored. It would not feature even the slightest ornamentation. It would not be pretty. It might be the last thing to cross your mind. It would be easy to read. It might be worn as an armband. Boys might see it as a threat. It would be tedious. It would lend itself freely to social networking venues. It might feature instructions for simple repairs. It might make use of astrology. It would contain 40% of your daily recommended allowance of Vitamin C. It might serve as a manifesto. It might be a good way to initiate a significant relationship. It might serve as good traction in slippery conditions. It would be read aloud. It might cause break-ups in those aged 19 to 25. It might occasionally need to be jump-started. It would be handed down from generation to generation. It would begin and end in the same way. One might find it tucked into the dust jacket of an influential contemporary novel. It would not fit in well with others of its kind. It is often ignorant of the details. There would be no recognizable continuity. It would feature references to music. It might be accompanied by comic drawings. It might be re-ordered. It might find itself banned. It would exist in the public domain. It would be attributed to no particular author. It would be composed by “editorial staff” or “I”. One might feel he “knows” the “I”. It would often stink of sulfur. It would not relate well to numbers. It might “mean” something. It might not. It might require editing. It would make economical use of “white spaces”. It might be influenced by Russian existentialist cinema. It might be invisible. It would be easily translated into many languages. It would be best served over rice. It would be black and white. Girls might read it while combing their hair. It might appear on more than one page. Those pages might be numbered correctly or incorrectly. It might be printed in a variety of fonts. It might feature an allotment of space for advertisements. It might eventually find itself to be obsolete. Its corners might curl in excessively humid conditions. It is almost immediately out of print. It might serve well in lining the bottom of a bird cage. It would feature food. It would be edible. One might include it in a gift basket. It would feature the occasional one word sentence. Alas. The form would rarely be used. It would be a surprise. Animals would flock to it. It might not be valid. It would be misunderstood. It might be endless. It would be out of necessity. It would be in response to “you” and “yours”. It would be left-aligned.)
❊ ❊ ❊ ❊ ❊
G. Matthew Mapes
An Abandoned Storefront
Whereas, MI
T (734) 335-7053
M (734) 756-8590
gmatthewmapes@yahoo.com
gmapes@emich.edu
Professor Emerita - Department of Slavic Languages & Literatures
University of Michigan
3040 Modern Languages Building
812 East Washington
Ann Arbor, MI 48109-1275
Dear Bogdana,
I can only assume it was you who provided the guidance, and for that, I am most grateful. Just yesterday morning, I awakened to find your gift tacked to my back door. (Very clever, by the way, placing it out of the sight of my vengeful mail carrier.) Upon reading the instructions, I immediately began to compose the piece. And, before long, I realized that it was going to be exactly what it needed to be. Thank you. You have miraculously resurrected yet another poet.
Please find enclosed a copy of the finished piece. Also, please note that I’ve requisitioned a courier, for Monday, November 1, in order to have delivered to you the recovered Hermes, Dog and Star.
Faithfully yours,
G. Matthew Mapes
❊ ❊ ❊ ❊ ❊
(Also. When last we were together. I am an icicle in your hand. You had found me to be disappointing. We walked along the frozen coast. You are a pendant in my breast pocket. As such. One lane revealed another. The tracks were different than the year before. The wind is responsible for my tears. This is one of several familiar spots. Stopping is not an option. The air was rich with the fragrance of cinnamon. Your husband was asleep. The wrench is not the right size. Insofar. I carried the books and a candle. He wore a flashing light on his forehead. The tree-line offered shadow. We watched each other breathe. Her car was warm and safe. The call came too late.
He drank your mother’s whiskey. ⎡ ⎤
He drank your mother’s whiskey. ⎡ ⎤
⎣ ⎦
Albeit. There were two rabbits. Only three photographs were taken. You sprinkled your popcorn onto the snowbank. The conversation is open-ended. We stopped at mile-marker 47. The florist stamped his feet to keep warm. I have a can of soda and a bottle of antacid tablets. Heretofore. The story was later conveyed in a letter. I chopped the wood with a small hatchet. A slight plume of smoke is visible in the distance. You tore your scarf on a protruding nail. It is eleven o’clock. It is three o’clock. It is five o’clock. I am at home. It seems the weather is always a factor. He helped her to her feet. His instrument was the jawbone of an ass. The fare is affordable. That kindness was not expected. The napkin fell into her lap. The records are kept in a cabinet in the back room. He tripped over a crack in the pavement.
The music is Duke Ellington’s "The Single Petal of a Rose".
http://www.amazon.com/Single-Petal-Rose-Queens-Suite/dp/B000UBRMX2/ref=sr_1_7?s=dmusic&ie=UTF8&qid=1431734801&sr=1-7&keywords=single+petal+of+a+roseWhereas. There should have been a cake. A group of monks gathered at the door. She collected more than enough. I am a Taurus. The man behind the counter suspected the worst. The distance was too great. It was realized that her opponent was unformidable. I found the whet stone in my messenger bag. They located four potatoes and a pumpkin. The tea is no longer hot enough. He was curious about the failed business. There were kids involved. His mustache tickled her lips. They stepped back onto the dock. It is a family heirloom. He received another patch for his ragged coat. They struggled to remove the ring from his finger. Clouds surrounded the moon. The blade was dull to the touch. You meant more than you said. Alas. I wanted more pepper and oregano. She waited for another hour before leaving.
The package was small and wrapped in twine. ⎡ ⎤
⎣ ⎦Henceforth. It could not have been a more inappropriate time. He found himself living there. It was the coldest winter she could remember. All that could be done was to try. One enjoyed himself while the other did not. The sound was familiar to both of them. It was more than just a problem with the law. He could see three streets over from the top of the hill. She simply threw it into a box. He waited. I found the marker and wiped it away. It eventually melted. Also.)
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