letters to forgotten dead people

Dear Jim,
I know when you died, I promised to write you a lot. I haven’t. But you know that. Apologies are pointless, so, I’ll just get to it. I can’t remember the last time I wrote you, so I will just start from wherever … I’m in DC now. I’ve been here about 2 years. I suppose I came for a job, but really to find something more important. I’m still not sure what it is, but I suppose it will all clear up as this movie unfolds. This weekend was like few others … Bar / Club hopping on Friday night with Dave and some Boy Candy who got us in to the I Bar for free (and me with my sneakers!). The guy at the door gave me a future reference point that sneakers weren’t normally allowed, but he gave me props on matching my nice suede blue pumas to my blue button down, untucked. What a style monster I am. Jim, if it weren’t for the failures I keep repeating, I swear you’d be proud.

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Hard to say

OK – here it is. I’m torn about releasing this one. It doesn’t really have a title, per se, but it’s been called “Amerika”, “3 Thousand mile Love”, “God damn piece of shit”, and others. Either way, I wrote it in January, 2004 over the course of about 5 very sleepless days. Of the 6 public readings this poem has had, the introduction that was closest to the truth was, “I slit my wrists and bled out onto the page.” Of all the poems that have kept me up, this one was the worst. I don’t think I can convey just how personal this poem is to me. Everytime I read it, I well up with tears and choke on my words. When I’ve read it publicly, it always comes with a lot more pauses than I’ve written into it. It is with great reluctance, but even more promises to share it, that I post it now.
It came from an argument I got into in front of a coffee shop with … well, let’s just say that they weren’t the best debaters. It ended with them saying, “This is America – love it or leave it!”

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Cardinals

There is now a set of love birds in the tree behind my apt. A red Cardinal and his fine lover chirp to me as I hang out and smoke cigarettes in the blistering heat. Occasionally, they hop down and hang out with me. If I’m watering the ivy or the daisies, they hang out on the fence under their tree and commiserate on neighborly things.

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The Sexy Nurse

every whore is worthless;except for their pain.that’s worth something – to me.it’s cold.i drink tea i made.i eat soup i made.i sleep alone,shadows painting monsterson the ceiling;with sirens wailingtheir curses at me.“No.” I’ll say it again,“I don’t hate you.”I just don’t like to fuck you.you can say it in any language you want,but I know … Read moreThe Sexy Nurse

Childish Dreams

Sweet little doll, you’ve never said a word. You’ve been on my mind, you may have heard Your momma and I, we aren’t really talking It’s been a long time since I went a-walking. If my memory serves, you’d be almost 8 And in my dreams, honey you’re doing great. When you lost your first … Read moreChildish Dreams

Soapbox Artist: collecting art & literature of the worst kind