I don’t know what year it was that I met you. It seems I have always measured time by emotional failures, great ones, as the ones I have measured usually are, the ones that can be at least. I had accused my mother of this once during a stream of consciousness episode I was forcing myself to experience under the witness of the then love of my life. She said that I did that. Matter of factly. Was I speaking about myself the entire time, can we ever not.
I urge myself to write humbly. No references. I keep the flesh-kincaid at about 4th grade; that’s what I call it now, Flesh Kincaid; the mockery is appealing like hot cocoa in the winter I find myself in. I hate everything I write to you.
What would you have thought of them. I will think of them for you. No ones words should be sold by the pound; they sold them by the foot, on a shelf, managed the empty spaces with used hardcover and trash; there is so much trash David. He says “Here’s one. You’ll like this, look.” And now the words succumb to his exaggerated display of the title, and he says that it is. He opens it like the Word to read a sentence to show me how much he knows me, you, can prove it in this random almost chrasmological exerpt, I have never remembered the sentence he tore from you like a hair saying here, this is David, and by the consequence of this self admittedly puerile solicitation, this is you.
He is the tall kind of skinny and he is tall. His wife, not so much; they define us , like our dogs, we them. He’s nice in a regrettable way. I will never see him kill, take, ruin, is it wrong for that to weaken him to me? Is it wrong to say his benign heart, the one he had his chance to make known, is a lay psalm, a deacon by a spring, a preposition.
I will never finish that book, it’s all I have left of you though they give me a Pale King it will never be mine. You were.
I praise you like an Idiot. The women I fuck, I make them read sentences, my enthusiasm compels them. I feel your loneliness on every page. The vacancy of his father, the desire, the G.O.A.T. in the bathroom alone and possibly no longer (P)retty, the people on the other side of the door David, at the party, all of them, they read your book, some of them are forced to write papers and they do, to the people who would force someone to write a paper. I hate them for it. I wonder if they claim something now, when they talk about it, when the intellectualize it. Did you want to teach?
I feel that petty hedge of understanding surround you, students, women. A mind is not it’s own. When you get my letter I am damned. I am where and who and full of shit. A job of that minute, I listen, you say it again your voice uncanny. I believe it. It takes time and profanity, it is something you put up with, I think you know or knew it would have been something like that, hard for me to believe but I do and I leave California.
You get me in your class, I find a job, you find me a better one. I stay in the guest room, never see you there, move out into a studio, I brought nothing, every night, every god damn night we write: The End
When they tell you, when god tells you I never sent the letter he is lying. And though you don’t remember the rest of what I am saying its true, it happened every day, it’s happening right now.