Dear Miss Integral Soledad,
This time. And others sure. No matter. Now is good enough for impressions. Summer is a man in a mid-life crisis, jealous and angry at the dark clouds that strolled by its window. Annoyed by their wafting swagger and headstrong methods of cool displacement. He sits and simmers and boils and glares and tries to collect himself but finds something missing. Over the course of a month or two, he searches as high and as low as he can, looking for whatever he thinks he’s missing. Something believed/hoped to be missing. Something familiar and forgotten, like an old toy or a picture of your father as a young man. Something that takes over and under and encapsulates with nobility. And then two months pass and defeat sets in. He wakes up too early, goes to sleep too late. He grunts with every step, coughs with every exhale. Madanxiousjealousangryannoyeddelirious, destroyed. On a binge, on a rampage, on a bad trip, on a bed of broken glass. He trembles at the thought of himself, at self-realization. Then the surrender. But before he breaks down – he breaks out. Oh man. Summer is a man in a mid-life crisis, sad he arrived too late.
Keep orchestrating asphalt and godspeed.
Dear Miss Uprooted Dignidad,
I know of your disdain for proper taste so I apologize for the formality in both the rationality and digital context of this/hereof. Naturally, this/hereof is not a result of urgency but instead what some might call ill-placed time. I’ve no idea if that’s true or not. On to pressing matters. The clouds are moving faster every day, is it the same over there? I’m under the impression that clouds over there are due for a town meeting that will result in gestures of subtle self-importance, is this true? Here, the trees and buildings and people and calendars are starting to show their age and grow restless with swift and heavy winds, is it similar over there? Is it true the local squirrels are running around with an atmosphere of solitary grace and annoyance that can usually only be found among stray cats and coyotes? I personally don’t believe it, squirrels don’t have what it takes, plus their tails are a joke.
Keep feeding the fire and godspeed.
Dear Miss Whiskey Tragedia,
Days seem to be moving along with this wind, have you noticed? I barely noticed today when the sun was put out like a candle. It was an after-the-fact sort of thing, so maybe I’m just late to the conclusion. I’ve been busy with the re-institutionalization of the subtleties of hate, there’s no better place than home for that. But as a result, I’ve acquired a taste for coincidence. Perhaps it’ll be useful during dangerous mishaps. The light in my room has gained its confidence through trial and fraud, whatever works, so long as it keeps working. I suppose. It is a frightening and demanding line of sight now, I suggest you keep your light-bulbs half alive and the other half diseased. If only to keep away a decent shadow or two. There might’ve been a point for which to travel to but the direction was lost quite easily. So it goes.
Keep hanging clouds and godspeed.
Dear Miss Translucent Promesa,
I wandered through columns of clear clean honor and came upon a crowd that sat in silence. I gathered enough annoyance to ask a member of the audience what was going on, he told me it was a catastrophe. It just looked like a debate between water and electricity to me, what an exaggeration. On to better matters and illusions, have you noticed the sun moving with the misdirection of a top spun by an impatient child? I never know where the damn thing is going to end, but at least I’m assured it will stop. Here, the sounds of the city have lost their indifference and have taken up a charm usually only found among park swing sets. Is it the same there? From what I remember, the sounds there are brave and callous with failure. I can’t decide which I prefer, one allows me to go through the heaps of expectations and broken car parts with a waltz like step. The other has me struggle and slouch on murdered streets littered receipts of dignity and anticipation. I bet you know which one I’d chose. And I can help but wonder, how have the counterfeit dreams assimilated to all this? Not much can be expected from them, aside from a good glance in the wrong direction. But I’m not even sure of that much, it’s your area of expertise, so you tell me.
Keep translating broken concrete and godspeed.
Dear Miss Colloquial Desastre,
You ever have a conversation with yourself? Not out loud, though I suppose it doesn’t much matter if it is. But you ever do that? I’ve been having conversations with myself and I often forget who I’m talking to, and something I don’t even say anything. I just slip out of it and words are being thrown around that aren’t mine. That can’t be good. Maybe I need to rest more comfortably on my bed of honesty. All the buildings we’ve gone through, looking for bits of nostalgic wallpaper, they’re all starting to shine a little more with solitude. And the platoon hardly comes back with anything to show, it hardly seems worth it, maybe it’s not a matter of quantity of results but quantity of action. That hardly seems worth it either. I keep waking up right before an earthquake of shame, it helps preserve my foundation, it helps me go back to sleep. One day I’ll wake up next to you, it’ll be dark with confusion and cold, so damn cold, but I won’t have to worry about earthquakes anymore. It almost seems worthwhile.
Keep dreaming in geometry and godspeed.
Dear Miss Whiskey Tragedia,
My windows seem to be letting less and less light bleed in, I suspect they conspire against my best and only wishes so as to properly unionize with the walls. The floor boards seems to crack as much as my bones now, what do you suppose that means? Surely it’s nothing good for any party. I now find myself singing more than I used to as my imagination crashes down on me like waves of a storm. My insanity’s prequel seems to be coming up, front row seat and it’s about time. I’ve been waiting too long perhaps, waiting on who-knows-what, but waiting regardless. Not an absurdist method, not even close. I suppose waiting is the wrong word for it. It’s best to say I’ve been striking my patience into pressure in hopes of creating dynamite. And failure or otherwise, it will be a sight for all the stars and clouds and mountains and everything to look upon in solitude. Have you ever seen the birds taking revenge on the wind? It’ll be similar to that.
Keep your valor in the ash tray and godspeed.
Dear Miss Whiskey Tragedia,
I’ve been told that the mountains now face the sun with recollection and annoyance. It makes me reconsider the gifts and regret the time I let crash upon waves of air and static clouds. I suppose it’s not their fault, and I’m told it’s not my fault either, what do you think? I’ve found myself looking out windows more often than I used to, which was a lot anyway. From time to time I’ll leave my front door wide open and pace back and forth through it. It doesn’t accomplish anything, flies just buzz in and get disappointed when they find out I don’t have any food lying around. In time, I suppose, like a birds flight or a stray dog’s meal. And then the trees will be proud again and the sky – noble. Cats will curl their tails as they wander shamelessly and the sidewalks will crack with age and wisdom. Street signs will regain their morality, clouds will dissolve their obscurity. Things will be calm and bright and warm again, they will fall into place catch up to time. Like the last school bell of the day or the last drink of the night. And I wonder if you’ll be there.
Keep dancing with water and godspeed.
Dear Miss Translucent Promesa,
‘Cause these beat up, worn down, second hand, aging vagabond boots just won’t walk through them dust clouds left behind by the midnight-dinner-scene-crowd. With your notions parallel to the American Rockies and your stained glass eyes, no one would guess any of this to affect you. So I take my pocket watch, with its missing hand and tangled chain, and present it to you in that old fashioned manner with my Spanish smirk. And this show’s been on before, you were on the balcony seat while I was on the stage, no, the spotlight wasn’t on me, you didn’t have your lorgnette anyway. When the boxcars roll down those Midwest plains you’ll see what I mean by the Journey of the Gypsy, in their melancholy chug-chug-chug and the new-world sound they produce, with their bare-bone frame below that Old Flag Dream. The palm trees towering over the litter ridden streets and boulevards, and the rusty nineteen-fifties light posts, they all tickle your mind, rattle your spine, and quell you. It started raining as I hitched a ride from a Texas factory worker, but the sun was out and light did this funny dance and started looking like your summer dress, conversation was light and I took my flask from my tattered vest. My leather hat should still have the sweet spring smell of your hair, I left it on your stove top, to think I was distracted enough to leave it with you. With a swig of rum while I hum this song, I show up at the door covered in clear blue nostalgia, with its Christmas tuned doorbell and finger painted stars, I should have known it was too late or too early for all of this.
Keep ironing oceans and godspeed.
Dear Miss Colloquial Desastre
The rains here don’t seem to agree on who has the right-of-way and have begun to crash on each other with the grace of a pigeon’s feather, have you noticed? It used to be I didn’t need to get used to any of it. I’m lost without my feelings of restlessness, like the salvation of stray dogs. Hit or miss, I suppose. And I can’t help but wonder if the gravel everywhere else resists the temptation of the sun like it does here, it does so with resolve and solidarity. The catastrophes need not bother here, this place can destroy itself. There is a crow that rests atop the pine tree next to the broken street lamp, you remember the one. It sits there at the very pinnacle of the pine, I would guess it looks upon the smaller birds with jealousy; crows can’t fit in little bird houses. And it clings to the top of the tree with such valor and vengeance, it would be more menacing if there weren’t a falcon circling above it. My days have lost their polish and my weeks have lost their serenade, my months are just plain lost. How are your moments fairing against the grim odds brought from radical leaves and praying rocks? Three to one, I would guess.
Keep forgiving sidewalks and godspeed.