The Beauty of my Inbox

A letter from Hawksley Workman:

what will soldiers look like marching down this road? tired and hunkering down as snow drives diagonally from the grey. i used to lay in the snowbank to let snow gather in my beard. there's a fox down the way that seems insane. his eyes are squinty. face fading. last year i watched him pounce on a mouse. he connected easily to his fire then. the sun rises more slowly now. at least that's how it feels. i really need to stop listening to the news. fear is really its own special brand of poison. remember, we're all connected. and the water salesmen must have trouble sleeping at night. i used to believe in so many things. now i believe in cells. damage and reaction to damage. the simple rearrangement of structures and foundations. trees made to grow sideways. that's pain. prolonged pain becomes noise on the horizon. and sometimes it feels so loud i wonder how the sun shines through it all. all those waves of noise. noise so loud you can see it. what will soldiers look like marching down this road? with nano fabrics and stain remover. will their uniforms snap tight? the porcupine lays his quills flat. he gives you way to pass. even as trouble is constant. and what i would have called evil in earlier days, seems to have an artisan energy source. even still, i get lost in the bodies. mostly yours and mine. as politicians and newsmen smile with the words "end times" tattooed on their sparkling teeth, i still consider you more. i want to be a hero in your bed. i thought in days like these i would be strong. a statesman. a fighter. but all i am is yours. cells and all. not complicated. not impossible. not decisive. not upright. a gloriously gathered supply of experiences that have led to us laying naked together this afternoon. we are confused and sad together. we let our beliefs collide. you've been hammered into you. i've been hammered into me. like the mountains and the valleys. not self made. antique hearts. a world of sunglasses warding off the glare. i couldn't have guessed it. and all this time i was reading my books and forming my prayers. all this time i was punishing myself for not letting go. all these years of my own torture. when i was really always my only harbour. all these days of being told not to trust the body. well curse on you connivers for your lies. may the fires have mercy. and as i try for loftier sentiments and more noble wishes, all i end up doing is conjuring up prayers. prayers to sing in our little church of sheets and sweat. our little church of afternoon sunlight and dishevelled blankets. our funny, little church of scattered pillows and fallen clothing. our "Liciousness". our perfect escape. our moments they could never glimpse into. womanlicious. manlicious. godlicious. everylicious.

h.

Tragic yet lovely images.

New City LOVE

Boston. I love everything about this city....except the amount of money I go through every week...DAMN DIRTY NEWBURY COMICS!!!! There are so many young people in this town, I fall in love with a new guy on the T everyday. There's such a great vibe here. The east coast is so relaxed (not NYC of course), I think that's because it's been around for so much longer than the midwest. It's like a retired person, just chillin' and taking it easy. By comparison, Chicago is in its' midlife crisis stage. Maybe when I'm ready to retire Chi will be too and we can both live in subdued harmony.