To look back on it all you'd swear it would have all come to nothing
potentials running dry and crazily down steep slopes, sure to
fail, sure to crack wide open on the dry, red rocks that coated the valley floor like a damn
shag rug violated by the idea of
pure beautiful anarchy and
sweet red wine. it was totally unpretentious, damn
parade was so small they used to run it around
twice. a rise of residential institutions and a couple of libraries later we had a
manifesto in the making
"denominational phenomenon" they used to call it but who knew anyway? we were all for it and so what if he was
drunk most of the time...let it come down to this: some things are meant to be and some things are meant to mean something more than just
inevitable suffering and discord being the foundation for
true, fluid
chemistry lost on professor's daughters running around
naked with indian headdresses and beads scantily holding up bathtowels--it was an
american shame really--we'd divided human beings into four sub-species with top of the list being
shaman and so what if they weren't anything really in the long run didn't it all come out to common sense and proper decency? are there really too many questions trundling around stacks of bookmarks and
laundry detergent stacked up (we were stacked up on the
pavement) we knew it all!! we knew every damn thing is nothing was working--no more
gasoline. lack of the good
clergy of the eighteenth century wish you could shoot it in the eye, don't you wish your name was
Samuel Stanhope Smith, lacking in common sense as it turned out saved his vain little life not privy to this information for next week...we got
art
put
Hamlet on
quaaludes and throw a backbone into
Claudius and you got yerself a completely different play! by god i saw it with mine own eyes the sentry duty sexual favors
museums and
opera houses burning to the
ash covered ground, burning back to the roots they grew from, burning burning burning what chances we were given at life
eternal well i wouldn't start window-shopping for eternity just yet there
crybaby, made her cry so that was nice. the whole gaddamn script smelled like gasoline and old shoes.
"gimme those shoes" some water all that i want, so i tell her about the bastard's bad attitude--in a desperate attempt to keep her on the line you understand--it was
rag and bone shop of the heart all over again (
Yeats) ((
yikes!!)) the
circus animals weren't leaving of their own accord, they were forced
"do you hear what i'm saying to you?" into the pastures and jungles,
alien as it was, to kill/be killed as it has doubtless been since the beginning of all history. some people can't stand to be with their own minds (she thinks daddy's lonely, you see)
literary friendships spring up and take root in the early morning coolness of
April methinks you walk like strangers. This is the
West: dry, cracking open granite with sliced
limestone running thick with bones of the long
dead kings of the
earthly prison, tooth and nail clatter into broken glasses spilling over
blood and
water to the
mosaic painted tiles below; Shannon throws a stoned
birthday party "Holland Haters Anonymous" we all sit around in the same tired circle without a single thought of dignity while Jeff shows us handstands and preaches (
soapbox) philosophy and politics...it's all getting to be too much for a tired old soul to transcend
the fall from the Garden, the fall from the second story window onto a second-hand beat sofa left there the night before by two crazy teenagers with hand rolled
cigarettes and a pocketful of
licorice mints.
(there are no spelling errors in this entire letter, mind you!)