Whenas in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see
That brave vibration each way free,
O how that glittering taketh me!

—Robert Herrick

Ithaca, October 1993: Jorie went on a lingerie
tear, wanting to look like a moll
in a Chandler novel. Dinner, consisting of three parts gin
and one part lime juice cordial, was a prelude to her hair.
There are, she said, poems that can be written
only when the poet is clad in black underwear.

But that’s Jorie for you. Always cracking wise, always where
the action is, the lights, and the sexy lingerie.
Poems, she said, were meant to be written
on the run, like ladders on the stockings of a gun moll
at a bar. Jorie had to introduce the other poet with the fabulous hair
that night. She’d have preferred to work out at the gym.

She’d have preferred to work out with Jim.
She’d have preferred to be anywhere
but here, where young men gawked at her hair
and old men swooned at the thought of her lingerie.
“If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen the moll,”
Jorie said when asked about C. “Everything she’s written

is an imitation of E.” Some poems can be written
only when the poet has fortified herself with gin.
Others come easily to one as feckless as Moll
Flanders. Jorie beamed. “It happened here,”
she said. She had worn her best lingerie,
and D. made the expected pass at her. “My hair

was big that night, not that I make a fetish of hair,
but some poems must not be written
by bald sopranos.” That night she lectured on lingerie
to an enthusiastic audience of female gymnasts and gin-
drinking males. “Utopia,” she said, “is nowhere.”
This prompted one critic to declare that, of them all,

all the poets with hair, Jorie was the fairest moll.
The New York Times voted her “best hair.”
Iowa City was said to be the place where
all aspiring poets went, their poems written
on water, with blanks instead of words, a tonic
of silence in the heart of noise, and a vision of lingerie

in the bright morning—the lingerie to be worn by a moll
holding a tumbler of gin, with her hair
wet from the shower and her best poems waiting to be written.

Dear Rich,

I have been reading your blog for several years. In the span of that time, you have exposed me to many great bands and comics. Thank you for your posts.

There is only one question that lingers in my mind, and it is regarding the captain america branding you have on your blog. Would you say you interest in captain america is…

a.) very strong, i frequently wear captain america attire on days other than halloween
b.) somewhat strong, i identify with steve rogers more than captain america, only occasionally adorning myself with a large “A” on my forehead
c.) weak, the boss said i needed some branding; the aforementioned costume, if ever in my possession, would be sold or given away
d.) none of the above


Sincerely,
raiment

Dear God,

Please give me the courage to ask Armond for this hair.

Yours Truly,
raiment

Strong sun, that bleach
The curtains of my room, can you not render
Colourless this dress I wear?—
This violent plaid
Of purple angers and red shames; the yellow stripe
Of thin but valid treacheries; the flashy green of kind deeds done
Through indolence high judgments given here in haste;
The recurring checker of the serious breach of taste?

No more uncoloured than unmade,
I fear, can be this garment that I may not doff;
Confession does not strip it off,
To send me homeward eased and bare;

All through the formal, unoffending evening, under the clean
Bright hair,
Lining the subtle gown. . .it is not seen,
But it is there.

by Edna St. Vincent Millay