I wanted to write to drop a line and convey my deepest gratitude; I always enjoy correspondence from You.
I read Your letter while walking home from buying Milk and other things.
I saw that even The Decayers are alive right now:
While the muscles strut their hymns in fibers ignited,
All Things are darting around newly alive including and especially the things that feed on the dead.
I wondered to myself the Word:
Perhaps those things that are dying in high quantity had just become careless in their ecstacy,
Born in the coming of light so strident (muscolo meat fantasy),
Until they faltered, drinking juice with such large admission that they actually slipped into it and died.
I have to tell You.
The driveway was so wet this morning that I slid on my ass the whole way down.
And while You took a twilight walk, I screwed in lieu of going to Mass.
And, yes. Okay, yes, I sit at stop lights and shudder when they turn green,
Dream about hotrods while the old man in the front of line putters across the intersection.
And, while the Glitter Glue You justjizzed on the tips of the trees is not even dry yet,
I can already see that It is almost over:
The Muscle of an Era.
They simply lived too hard,
But didn’t die perhaps,
Instead went through the doors most of us only see in our peripheral vision.
They burned so hot in their love that they ripped a hole in the holy lining, which is Time.
And all the while,
Our Friend (Your well-made and dapper-dressed but affordable Offspring),
He’s slowly shedding His reptilian slits and becoming the Frutto that his Father willed him and his Mother hoped him to be.
And, I’m confessing as I write this:
He whispers to me daily,
“I am battling my private insurrection,
specifically tasting warm metal in My Mouth.
I just slipped down the highway on a slit gondola and popped every last mosquita’ ass.”