I don't think I told you that I was applying for a job in Samoa. Well it came through. The CSIRO have set up a new Wagga-Fish Development division here. I've been working on a scientific journal on the fish called Red Mountain Review.
It's a lonely scene but one must pay the piper if you are going to edit a journal of red poetry. I'm using it as a Trojan Horse, it will appear to be a Red-journal but its secret mission is poetry. The same way I published
The Pigeon Fancier in Mexico in the late 1940s. The Red Island Red.
I have sent out a letter for submissions.
All the abiding poets of love and meat: James Dickey, James Wright, Walcott, Olson, Pound, Picabia... Lets make this one useful, we can include Francis Webb but I draw the line at Poe and Francis Thompson. You know I like the odd black drop but the last time I ran with that crowd Robert Johnson and Hank Williams slipped me a heavy tube of angry powder and I couldn't get near a woman for weeks in end because of the blue humming.
Let's do this right, let's bring back James Taylor and Grace Perry!
There's a man called Richard Tipping here who says he knows you both - he's running in circles and calling 'Ulladulla, O my Love, Blackheath and the Hunter River!' and he is eating spanner crabs like a big jewie on the spawning run to Jerusalem Bay. He is a real pink item. A cardboard cowboy from Denver. He says he's bringing in Tom Raworth to free Wallace Crabbe and Bruno Leti from their captors in Tasmania.