To look back on it all you'd swear it would have all come to nothing potentials running dry and crazily down steep slopes, sure to fail, sure to crack wide open on the dry, red rocks that coated the valley floor like a damn shag rug violated by the idea of pure beautiful anarchy and sweet red wine. it was totally unpretentious, damn parade was so small they used to run it around twice. a rise of residential institutions and a couple of libraries later we had a manifesto in the making "denominational phenomenon" they used to call it but who knew anyway? we were all for it and so what if he was drunk most of the time...let it come down to this: some things are meant to be and some things are meant to mean something more than just inevitable suffering and discord being the foundation for true, fluid chemistry lost on professor's daughters running around naked with indian headdresses and beads scantily holding up bathtowels--it was an american shame really--we'd divided human beings into four sub-species with top of the list being shaman and so what if they weren't anything really in the long run didn't it all come out to common sense and proper decency? are there really too many questions trundling around stacks of bookmarks and laundry detergent stacked up (we were stacked up on the pavement) we knew it all!! we knew every damn thing is nothing was working--no more gasoline. lack of the good clergy of the eighteenth century wish you could shoot it in the eye, don't you wish your name was Samuel Stanhope Smith, lacking in common sense as it turned out saved his vain little life not privy to this information for next week...we got art put Hamlet on quaaludes and throw a backbone into Claudius and you got yerself a completely different play! by god i saw it with mine own eyes the sentry duty sexual favors museums and opera houses burning to the ash covered ground, burning back to the roots they grew from, burning burning burning what chances we were given at life eternal well i wouldn't start window-shopping for eternity just yet there crybaby, made her cry so that was nice. the whole gaddamn script smelled like gasoline and old shoes. "gimme those shoes" some water all that i want, so i tell her about the bastard's bad attitude--in a desperate attempt to keep her on the line you understand--it was rag and bone shop of the heart all over again (Yeats) ((yikes!!)) the circus animals weren't leaving of their own accord, they were forced "do you hear what i'm saying to you?" into the pastures and jungles, alien as it was, to kill/be killed as it has doubtless been since the beginning of all history. some people can't stand to be with their own minds (she thinks daddy's lonely, you see) literary friendships spring up and take root in the early morning coolness of April methinks you walk like strangers. This is the West: dry, cracking open granite with sliced limestone running thick with bones of the long dead kings of the earthly prison, tooth and nail clatter into broken glasses spilling over blood and water to the mosaic painted tiles below; Shannon throws a stoned birthday party "Holland Haters Anonymous" we all sit around in the same tired circle without a single thought of dignity while Jeff shows us handstands and preaches (soapbox) philosophy and's all getting to be too much for a tired old soul to transcend the fall from the Garden, the fall from the second story window onto a second-hand beat sofa left there the night before by two crazy teenagers with hand rolled cigarettes and a pocketful of licorice mints.

(there are no spelling errors in this entire letter, mind you!)

There's little to contain the damage done now is there now as you're looking like one who just might want to offer a little help no help can undo the done can it. I swear as we offered ourselves to each other that fitful frightful expulsion into a nightdream daysweat it was hard to tell which was the rightful owner of what portion of that we both knew. You see us sitting in that yellow cab rain falling on mud-soaked streets of grime and souls ground down to the bone while no one notices us yelling punches thrown trying to hold them back they hurt not only the body. Souls are dying here. Barlights and street fights with the dust that won't remember squat while fumes howl don't dare say that he's not even your type while I'm festering with the memory of the sheet that we first knew. Long live the dead as they walk all over us in synapses that misfire the memory right on cue you watch that livewire emote is that really me or was I misremembering.

Q: What impersonal objects were perceived?

I saw the most elegant paradigms of a generation implemented by committee, baroque overengineered crufty,
dragging themselves at dawn through the marketplace looking for a bug fix . . .

America why is your software full of misfeatures?
I don't feel good don't bother me.
America, I won't write my program till I'm in my right mind.

Thanks to il miglior fabbro, no foolin'. Pseudo_Intellectual beat me to it. Yeah, and that other guy too, for the catechistic bit.

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