Well, I’ll be goddamned…
Me to friend:
10/15/15
damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
The leathery love, slinking support, paradoxical concern, conflicted care. Birds do it, bees do it. Your reserve is… unnatural. Your despair… unattractive.
You’re either angry or you’re not assertive enough. You didn’t say what you meant, since your mother taught you to speak in forked and folding, bending and breaking tongues.
It’s always your fault though.
…
America Goddam.
GO SLOW. You’re movin’ too fast. You wanted waterfalls. You got ’em and you got him, and them, and that.
You pushed and prayed.
Your slow-boiling rage,
splashing their eyes, their ears, their hearts. And it burned.
And scarred in 8's.
You know it’s your fault.
…
dang me, dang me, let’s give them the rope to hang me.
Then it will be my fault.
From some high tree of the highest court in the highest city on the highest hill. Glittering and gritty, the truth in living color, in film grain, in digital noise, there’s no relief from reality.
And what’s my main fault? the chink in my armor? the defect in my soul?
I want.
I want that one chance at the pursuit of happiness
and liberty
and life.
…
But wherefore this welter of damnation,
condemnation,
accusation?
The blame will keep. It self-preserves.
You’re goddamned right, it’s your fault. And mine, and theirs.
Ours.
—
Sent from Mailbox
…
