How fortunate coote has a known editor fall at his feet. Grand Canyon's big box gift to po-eat. Magic real métaphysique. If Charles Ives' quotation of camp meeting hymns gives natural fervency, then Coyte's set pieces, "Samaritan of the Cold," "I Loved Blood," "Now the White Warm Bread" and "Daffodog" warm their hands beside. 'Yote lifts Song of Myself, Scarlet Pimpernel, Shelley's Defense and a refrain from Lycidas to new heights. He takes Come Go With Me to the Dark Town Strutters Ball, the Dust Bowl Troubadour, Why Oh. Do ya hear animal speech remixed in Poe's Cask and Marston's Malcontent, nursery rhyme, Some Enchanted Evening? Attendez! Momma Noture is Coyote's matern. Franklin's middling skeletons in the basement of his London quarry Carver right out of the bone of Lish! Is this a message? Stop All Oneness, it is, even if the last reference to Iisaw, yo, turns vicious. That coyote eats the editor in the end we may doubt. How's he to get published? To solve these questions we tramped Grand Canyon hatless and burned by the Angel sun. These descents made perfect happiness, and when not hiking, to sketch pastels on the rim while our daughter perfected the call of ravens, sun, heat, rain and snowbowl cold gave what Joan Eardley breathed up from the sea. There was not then much passion to guard the rim. Golfers could tee up and drive Mars. Men called to their women that it all needed filling in. Serendipity beyond the counsel of lit, this story, denied half a year ago, still provoked inquiry whether Ai-ai-oo-oo was running, as the editor says, "to just push madly into the wilderness without care...and come out with something." This is strum not sturm, for coyote can't spell. Type faces, sizes, links, spacing, paragraphs are preserved as is. Not one addition, deletion, changed word, corrected broken usage of misspelling, punctuation in all these crimes and misdemeanors could be found. Not even a sigh! It is a perfect breakdown of the editorial process.
Coyotes' mad cause he’s hunted all the time. He really loves dogs, but talks like that to get even with owners. Thinks he Walt Bernard. A poet. The guy on the hillside is a lit agent. He get ate is further allegatory. Coyo talks to his mom, the agent, even to you, but mainly he moans the song-most thing on his mind: food. Volare, oh oh. This is that tale from the desk of Pedro Escadero all that many moons ago.Coyote ABC
A was for apple I cut up for food.
B was for the baby bird I visit after school.
We ate the hot fry.
D, when day was over, I could see the moon.
But my Binky could not rise.
Rise up you stars of stew.
I flown down a brandy,
a ruff-cask pooch with stuff.
Diddle down them animals,
Iron or ivory, with the nerve to call.
We get to know each other.
I am poet of Body and Soul. What-A-Dog Cosmos!