Sometimes a gallery exhibits more than its exhibit, and who knows what to say about that without firing off a debate, so I hesitate to mention after this, and this, and this, and this, and this, and this, and this, and anything else that comes to mind (apologies to anyone I left out, I'm working from memory)--
wait, what was I saying?
Oh yeah: if you're a suckling--and who isn't?--the summer Fence is all about you. But keep in mind the writers in this issue had no idea what you were after. Some of us appear there despite its impossible promise. Some deliver. Some of us will not voice a secret wish for cosmetic surgery. Absolutely tits are hot and deep (I mean profound). Mother, all things pale in comparison. Should they sell lit mags? Maybe just this once and never again.
I have a poem there, you know, so be kind if you want to be intimate. I'm in the best of company, but: you'll need to read past the cover to disagree. There's not much to read on the cover. There's a number you can call to get your own. I don't have it on hand though I think someone with a mouth has it memorized.
