I know you’re hungry. I’m hungry too.
The way you get my words.
The way you make music from words and words into crystal latticed semiconductors of hypnotic flow is a sight to behold. And I refuse to surrender to your resolve because my own resolve is plenty good enough and has gotten me this far.
These are not love letters. I’m not even semi-hard as I type this.
These are not Letters to Milena so don’t go getting your panties all in a bunch.
I need to experience Sabbath with you one on one. Like a live television broadcast there will be commercial breaks and we’ll get to know one another in the green room.
When I mentioned that writing was for me like taking down dictation straight from my brainstem and you responded it was the same for you, that’s when I started to believe you were a believer just like me.
Streams of consciousness shoot through our battle fatigues and we mustn’t worry about the cost we’ll ultimately pay because our deliverance has always been contingent on absolute and abject otherness and the belief that free will is only half of the picture.
Our pasts are past due and the reason we’re so comfortable with these futuristic cave drawings is because we were present when they first came into bloody being. Just like when a baby cuts their first tooth and a little whiskey helps kill the pain.
Grouch Marx is our benefactor. Harpo Marx his silent partner in the lost art of slapstick slaughter.
What happens when all of our Christ figurines have come down with a case of the flu? What happens if we don’t figure some way to withstand our own desperate pleas?
I need for us to meet with no distractions, including all of that needless expediency that gets us to the good part that much faster and yet proves to be just more buzzkill.
I like my animal crackers straight from the zoo.
I like my honey straight from the honeybee.
I like my poetry straight from the spicket. At first I thought you were a mirage then it became all too apparent that you are flesh, blood and words and burn hotter than rocket fuel.