In which anonymous writes a short letter to her favorite poet…
Talk dirty to me Henry Charles. Tell me those stories about the whore who took your poems and about the girl in a miniskirt reading the Bible outside your window. I wanna listen to them again, over and over again. Did you say she was doing a slow rhythmic dance reading the Bible? Ooohh you dirty old man. Did I ever tell you that I used to have a cellphone with guts much like your old radio with guts? Yes, I had it for five years, and then one day it just upped and died. I think I threw it on walls and floors too many times. When it died, I said to myself, ‘not much talk I’m gonna do anymore with a lifeless phone, but it really had a long eventful life, being a brave phone and all, and the death don’t make it junk.’ So I decided to keep it with me still.
Anyway, how are you these days, how is your heart? Did the doctor ask you whether you’ve been drinking again? You know, I went down to your basement the other day, and there I heard someone say, ‘Henry Charles was a weird looking dude, but he grew into his looks and aged like a really fuckin’ good Kentucky moonshine.’ Yes, MOONSHINE. Ahahahahaha! I’m sure you love that. As for me, I think you’re one of the shiniest gems that I have ever known, and I’m glad our paths crossed long ago on that cold winter evening in Delhi.
What you were
will not happen again.
The tigers have found me,
and I do not care.
There will always be something to ruin our lives. Ruined lives are normal both for the wise and others…
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