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By Letters

Sometimes we get tired of reading the same old stuff. But Scott Jacobs’ piece about looking out the window at the signs on the passing trucks is a breakthrough, if I might say, in the art of literature. This is the raw transcription of unfiltered moment-to-moment life.

You have nailed true-life truck signs in their natural traffic setting, unlimited by a narrow-minded editor who might ask something spurious, like, “Hey, what is the point?”

Your trucks are not artificially organized in the yellow pages. Through you we see the trucks of Western Avenue as Adam, sitting on the rock in Eden, once saw God parade all the animals before him as he named them aloud. What you have done for Western Avenue trucks is Biblical or bibliographic or bibulous.

I once wrote a poem about passing trucks myself based on observing them pass in front of my father’s fruit stand on Taylor Street. I wrote it as a dialogue between me and my little brother Herman.

Hey, Herman, here comes a truck.
Yup, yup.
Hey, Herman, here comes anudder truck.
Yup, yup.
Hey, Herman, here comes anudder truck.
Yup, yup.
Hey, Herman, here comes anudder truck.
Yup, yup.
Hey, Herman, that was a lotta trucks.
Yup, yup.

Peter McLennon


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