That gives you a little bit of background,
and now, we'll get into some pieces from Letters
to Unfinished J.
"He's so smart that I remembered I might love him.
Planets ditzed into a Mai Tai that I had to disinfect,
performed somnolent basket weave on my File Manager
in the spirit of spring cleaning.
The most brilliant man I know can't function.
It's one stop mopping after him, or I don't care to live.
Meanwhile, the matriarch moons on about unhappened things
I had forgotten.
Confetti used to be derived from something whole.
My plate of rice is littered with Parmesan
and lean strips partly melted.
Policy dictates steps shaped like a cream based waving flag.
Prance seems any likely posture when
the field is blond in character and lump
in near the postured weaves.
I heard Mr Intelligent recite a recipe I treasure from afar
where we dissolve into gratuities afforded
unnamed creeks and posture, lanky code,
and snarled specifics.
He and I would clash I've stated hypothetically
on more than one occasion.
Diaries are full of this and then I burn them.
It didn't take me long to gather up amnesia,
like a wild flower bouquet, to heal particular longing--
to heal peculiar longing for which recovery transcends
unlikelihood.
He's known for what he carries in a pail held
far from his left side.
Heir reputed to be nothing is much more.
He has explained it thus in terms equivalent to grief,
specifically my own."