Summerslam

Mr. Perfect,
Big event this
Sunday. The Hitman
in the cage. I'll
see you Saturday
on Superstars.

Hall of Famer,
Gorilla Monsoon

I pay in change

Scotch is midnight
when dogs seem asleep
the cats hoarse and purring
your tongue has to be saturated
cloaked, carpeted
The zest was lost after the
great war, that seeming
separation
Now its for the MEEK
the trident thieves

I pay in change.
Odelay,
Rice Ferguson

the past, recycled

it use to make me sick. seeing photos of her
getting along so well without me.
an overwhelming,encompassing, consuming wrath
of emotion, of time lost, of kisses wasted.
my only fault was loving her too much, worshiping
the presence I assumed she carried.

each month, assuredly, blindly hoping it would ease.
the empty stomach would gradually begin to fill.
each night, I would awake, with a mind absent of images
of her.

I can still sense her hair, smell her on my hands, feel
the warmth of her hips.

and this too shall pass, every week, says the sermon.
our time is transient, says Emerson,
just another circle.

I can’t keep crying for her, can’t keep wishing she
possessed more empathy.

it’s tragic the time wasted. it’s unhealthy the insomnia
transgressed.

it's unfortunate, my inability to forget.

epistolary 1

Lillybeth,
I found max and
the trunk. seems a bit
lite for the surcharg’.
lay me a five on 9 and
12. I’m betting on the
muse.
hoofs hoping,
Harold H

Aunt Aida,
rear view mirr’
knock’d bent, sames saz
lasttime. thirty’ll do it.
yer boy,
Ingram

Dear Lidia,
I open in telling you,
sumptuous, and nothing short
of it, is all I may conjecture,
or recall, of last eve’s rumba.
Delectably Yours,
Sebastian Kindly

Chair,
Ma ain’t the same,
the bouts, the lil’ debbies.
Freddi Lees makin the river
route.
holding the storms,
Sands

Genevieve,
Can’t say we’ll make it this season.
Factory’s only offering so many hours.
Give the little ones our love.
In Spirit and Love,
Aunt Josephine

Sorry pawpaw, but I
couldn’t let’em
jus talk bout Mimi
‘n her claw foot. See
you in five to ten.
Eustice


Pa, Ma
It’s overwhelming me and I must move. I promise to
write, though I can’t yet picture where abouts I’ll be come
Crismas. Suns a peakin’ and my postaponings run up.
Give jello and sissy my love.
Ponygirl

white lace

Embrace it my

love.

now irrespective of your past outpourings,

your once-resolute intentions.

Immerse yourself in your coming

wanton days,

your true ecclesiastical existence has arrived.

Swiftly so it blossomed

this loft assumption

of commitment.

never “imagining you would be where you are right now:

about to marry the man you can’t wait to spend the rest of your life with…”

It’s hard for me to ‘imagine’,

or any of us who knew you then.

When your joy

Spread like fire

your complacency

Like hemlock.

“stir up some passion

with Uncle Ben’s…”

cause all that’s left is somber Sundays,

and bowls of spicy rice,

to compliment movie night.

maybe the wine

tastes sweeter,

or so we hope.

It’s all we got,

to bestow our blessings

and

hope.

hope you can hold on

and keep from

remembering

what made you,

from

shattering

the horizon he’s painted.

maybe he never started,

but I know he smells

like the locker room,

the chapter room.

But I hope you haven’t lost your scent,

your gaze;

I pray it’s not

dead.

But don’t kill yourself

trying;

know the smiles fade,

running with mascara

through culverts of summer

storms,

and the dew of the rising red.

we can’t govern the tides,

tame the whippoorwill.

everyone’s ship sails

and I know you’ll never

reach new lands

without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a long time.

safe travels,

I’ll be checking the mail.

forever yours,

Rice Ferguson

life as sacrifice

Now what is history? It is th centuries of systematic explorations of the riddle of death, with a view to overcoming death. That's why people discover mathematical infinity and electromagnetic waves, that's why they write symphonies. Now, you can't advance in this direction without a certain faith. You can't make such discoveries without spiritual equipment. And the basic elements of this equipment are in the Gospels. What are they? to being with, love of one's neighbor, which is the supreme form of vital energy. Once it fills the heart of man it has to overflow and spend itself. And then the two basic ideals of mondern man--without them he is unthinkable--the idea of free personality and the idea of life as sacrifice.

from Doctor Zhivago, by Boris Pasternak