Wednesday, February 17, 2010


My camera's busted - gone baby gone. I would have preferred to photograph the image of the yellow (not yellowed) lined paper the following was ever so legibly scrawled on.
Opera while eating vanilla ice cream & kahlua (translated from the original Italian)

by Waldo Sealarezzia

Fig Fig Fig Figaro
I write so fast though
because I don't want-o
my ice cream to melto.

This stuff tastes (almost) as good as my
Jola la la la-la-la la-la
la's Kissessessessesses do-la

(Allegro II)
She-o getsa not much a mail-uh
in the mailboxa
A leg grows are too long rows


Its a tasty like she's a tasty.
Itsa smooth like-a her skin
It's - beginning to melt -- There-a-fore
It's getting warm like her

I'm-a eating it in the privacy
of my own room like I
love to see her in private - far
from other eyes

I can't stop with half a pint when
there's another half pint in front of
my greedy eyes --
Just like I can't stop with just
one kiss when her red lips are in
front of me.
Ice cream is sweet but only nearly
half as sweet as Jola (not even nearly)
Jola satisfies my psychological transcen-
dent sweet tooth in away that ice cream

[arrow drawn to] spot where kahlua dropped from spoon

fails to do for my physiological


Now I can write slow
because my ice cream no
longer exists
as a separate entity.
My stomach, however, now
does exist as a separate entity
(a fat entity, at that).
My bowl is empty and I am fat.

I can write ramblings like this because
I have no school!

Bear with me, please. Fat W. (grizzly)

Jola, I hope my next letter

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