A Letter To Lillith Kellogg.Yes, of course you can borrow my white dressMore Like This
with the rope straps, and my swirly silver
peace sign necklace. In fact, you can have
them both, because what else can I do? After
all the glorious gifts you have given me, how
could I ever repay you? And of course I will send
your ex-boyfriend Kjel's graffiti guitar, so
perhaps the neon pink and green flower, and
the Milkman Dan comic stained faintly purple
and blue will be the last thing your eyes ever
see. I will give you two hundred dollars for that
beautiful thing, that girl with the blue face covered
in bubbles and stars, such a peaceful expression, such
color, such dimension. I will give you anything you want
for it. When you are sad, don't worry, I will send you a
few grams of pot in the mail, from all the sunshine states,
delivered directly to your cold dark basement. When you
are living in an attic in Louisiana with no money and no
food, I will send you art sup
Depressing Russian Literature.Guilt is a piano on top of youMore Like This
instead of a man. Street noises
drain you like bleach on a rainbow.
Indecision becomes a washer & dryer
you can't stop putting things into
& taking things out of all through
a painful fluorescent night. The
brain becomes smoke, a hidden stash
of dark red cigarettes, dipped in
formaldehyde, waiting for you.
Depressing Russian literature
becomes your best friend & you
can't remember what it is like
to have a flesh & bone best friend,
a soft voice at the other end, someone to cough up
pounds of dirt and flashlights and floods with you.
Fun becomes self-destruction in the form of 47 grams
or too much coffee in the blood.
Death becomes a run-on sentence
wraps its arms around you, puts its
mouth all over a frozen horse.
Health becomes a science,
frightens you with its bones,
pulls at its skin like polyester.
Today is a miracle, & yesterday
was one too.
resurfaced (sapphire suns)the thing is,More Like This
if it had been different,
through cigarette-thin lips would've come
my name, wrapped in the scent of amber gin.
on wooden floors we'd be lined in light
again, laying so close. not touching.
if it was a cry for help,
nobody was really listening, were they, not
even your father, and so you left,
left in more ways than one, and i only heard you
when it didn't matter anymore.
the thing is,
you've been gone from my mind and heart
for years now, i've lost count.
days have been more fleeting than my own
inhales, my own exhales, or at least
it would seem.
the thing is, z,
time passes and changes.
my stars were yours once.
your skies were blue once.
if this is your call for attention,
these cyan heavens, these silver pinholes...
your invasion is my defeat.
An open letter to my Algebra teacher, Mr. Erz.Dear Mr. Erz,More Like This
I wanted you to know some things.
I failed your algebra class in 9th grade, pretty much on purpose. I know. That's a fairly common story, and not that surprising. We clashed a little. I remember asking the typical questions, like "What will I ever use this for? I'm gonna be an artist!"
Here's the first irony of the story. I've never used algebra in my life except for fun. I got into war-gaming and had to figure out stuff like collision equations. It's the Algebra Teacher's Revenge.
But the real story here is what you didn't do. You didn't reject me, or look down on me, or nag me or drag me down. You just accepted my decision to be stupid and let it slide. This made for some of my fondest memories of school. Discussions about how the world works, playing chess with other students and trying to figure out your hanoi tower puzzle, all in an atmosphere of acceptance.
What this produced was that when the true irony of my life materialized, my profession as a teacher, it