Today I read a book called Eunoia


And the ghost of Jack Spicer suddenly dictated to me the following poem, word for word 'cause it's his, in his typically languid way:
   

   A is a blank piece of driftwood being busted. E is a carpenter whose pockets are filled with saws, and shadows, and needles. I is a pun. O is an Egyptian tapestry remembering the glories of an unknown alien. U is the reverse of W. They are not vowels.

   When [Plato] said it first, he created the world.

From one ghost to another.