My buddy Paul Blair sent me an email early yesterday morning. This requires no explanation. If I were to explain the following email, I would ruin the suspense and humor carried within, which Paul himself carries within him, in his own special Paul Blair way, which I cannot and will not emulate, in my Moscovich way. If I were to attempt to emulate the Paul Blair way, I would end up sounding like Moscovich doing an impression of Paul Blair in the Moscovich way. Does that make sense? Incidentally, Paul Blair(e) told me there are many ways to spell his name, and the fact that I am using the Paul Blair way of spelling his name and not the Paul Blaire way of spelling his name is simply a tease. I say it's a tease because I think he mentioned some other way (the Gailic way) which may be entirely (other)different. I'm thinking further explanation is not going to detract from the following poem he sent me, as I said, yesterday morning, however, I will refrain from further explanation. I would like to add (if were hypothetically, to not refrain from further explanation, will you amuse me with your ear ((inner ear)) for a moment yes moscovich your nasty intercontinental belly is flopping tonight i can see) that lately I've found great pleasure (((presszure))((thats japanese for pleasure)(())) in introducing very short poems with long and pointless introductions. No doubt this self-satisfying playzure (playzury) in long introductions has its roots in (play-usury) a deep-seeded love for self-love (plagiar-usury) and intellectual self-flagellating seven bodied (seventh author) confusion infusion slash pumping of the trash lowbrow/highbrow hybrid sensibilities (Blare with me, now) included as in (real life architecture) of the parenthetical hyper-reality of living with a crash-course in the inimitible subtleties of the indirect gracefulness of passive aggressive Japanese prejudice (thank God ((with a capitol "G" as in Gaijin)) it's not a prejudice of the violent, virile, confederate flag waving variety in the modern (post-reality) north american south or confederate north for that matter ((read: go fuck yourself))). I may have forgotten to mention he sent this poem (((poem?))) to me very early, before nine in the morning, which is very early in the Moscovich way but perhaps not so unusually early in the Paul Blair(e) way way. And we're up, up and up again. Here's the poem. Here it is. At long last. May it ring through these plainless mountainless oceanless pollution-filled concrete pixelated streets (in the Paul Blair way).


ballad of moscovich


MOSCO BILLY
HAD A TEN FOOT WILLY
HE SHOWED IT TO THE GIRL NEXT DOOR

SHE THOUGHT IT WAS A SNAKE
AND HIT IT WITH A RAKE

NOW IT'S ONLY
THREE FOOT FOUR

-Paul Blair.