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Letter #29

September 30, 2011

The bed is a marsh.

I acted without intention  and somehow found myself

where I was needed-

your mouth opened with your body

I swam  smoothly past its riverbanks,   side-stroking   to the sea.

Now, here is a string between two cans.

Love is mundane

wears dirty jeans and chews gum

the boy  writes her a poem, makes her  into a poem

everything happens  for  a season.

One skin at a time

I peel  a son,brother, lover, father, husband,


until the wind scatters  my bones for futures

until the acid in the rain bleaches what  remains

down the gutters and  I stand

shaking  on a string 

stretched between your eyes.




In other news, a painting I’m currently working on.

I’m finding myself  reworking or painting over existing work I’m not quite happy with. I also feel like I’m on the verge of something, some new  real direction. I can feel and smell it in the air. I also feel like I’m missing  one key ingredient and I don’t know what it is- it’s like an itch somewhere out of reach on your back- you know it’s there, but you can’t get at it.

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