Thursday, February 25, 2010


Dear Allen,
I see the best minds of MY generation sinking under churches under earth quakes of kitties and all white backgammons. I see lives of peace and problems sinking fast like the golf course of adultery they fed us at bedtime. I see the slave songs once haunting and saving now mumbled with caution cause she's bubbled and sheltered and forbidden to shout. I see teachers offended and presidents up short in the creek that dries in the Mohawks of sitcoms and shortened attention. And the tears from the quake that's forgotten so very so very so soon. And the two dollars it cost them to purchase this mocha could have bought them a coat to keep out the sand, the incest, the lies. They all lied like freshman to a nation never mourning, never resting, never pausing to lessen the blows of the things of the guns of the clearance the syndrome the cannon the crayons the privates the lectures and cheeses. I see cuff links on loafers on prostitutes of other tongues so who cares that they're eight, that they're soft sculled, that they're mine and they're his and they're tired and ready for a hot glass of air fare. I see lifetimes of prescriptions exploding the heart valves the phone sex the talk shows the prophets. I see that I don't see I'm sorry I'm not I'm not I'm knot. I'm crying. I'm Julia. I lived on a street with a bench and a light.
~Just Skin today, need a trader joe's run

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