If your father writes you letters in fat crayola waxes and they've been kept in the mirror sill like souls, is it okay to suddenly know it. And to create the feeling of exchange without the loneliness of so-and-so, would you learn to write yourself those letters now that your father's have gone missing. You've lost them on purpose because there's something you've been meaning to tell yourself and he means it. And what part of you would these letters become to come from. Would they be more like notes, solo riots, choked up rants, stammers, trivial and crucial, what's that plan, do you only know how to be intimate. And how would they begin... Dear lucky one, dear daydreamer, I learn so much from you these days, about how to play the blues, so economical and so spare and yet so right, carefully careless. I like the way you've learned how any excuses you make are clues, that you're lying to yourself and lion to yourself, a cannibal all mellow like in the emerald green but showing up on grass, no camouflage, star spangled smoke, and how it's become so advanced that you have nothing to say at the beginnings of conversations. You choose to say nothing. Hello your quietness. Dear hero, dear rude hero, you're rude in an honorable way called who cares what we think we know about behavior. What if we decided to begin all meetings with a few moments of silence. Not too many. Just enough timelessness to remind us what's important about being there. I bet it'd be disorienting and centering like a Trane song, The Drum Thing, so satisfying it makes all else feel distant and now it's the most effective way to hide or show or so loud it can't be heard. Dear spirit guide, dear unbridled love, I've always wanted the pretty beauty and the ugly beauty to go between one another seamlessly and share the audience and the dream and the feeling of loss and completeness that gives us our memory of the dream in pieces of mirror corner that leap out at us throughout the day like slang, like a grammar we mangle to earth. Dear Candid Dolphy, dear sharer dream, dear shelter of your parent arms... save your father's words, that's what you've been meaning-- to tell yourself, don't be afraid to save them... We won't need a plot, we'll go deep enough into character we won't need a plot. You are a soldier of good fortune. You are a maverick in a world of mules. Almost everyone wants to be theatrical, and it's so thrilling to me, that you don't fake it
