Excerpts From Unsent Letters

...Breathe into it. That’s all. That’s all you have to do. Let it
come to you. The effortless effort. Just begin. The gesture inhabits
Meaning. There is no repetition …

I only read the margins. The places pressing out --
suspended sidebar thoughts we think we'll
expound on later, but hardly ever get back to ...


… The explosion we heard,
the sound real book-binding makes every time it’s opened.
A sigh, sliding back towards us.
I really don’t think there was anything we could have done
to stop it ...

… The place only you touched in me. Steam up from the streets. The manholes
Held Their Breath when we walked by. I can’t bear another over-romanticized
moon that won’t wear its light with simplicity.
What’s more beautiful than a freshly washed face? …

… White spiders - a metaphor for - I forget - a real thing too. Once in a parking lot late at night, one came down from nowhere and landed on my car antennae while I was driving away. Over twenty years ago. I never forgot that. They’re out there. Building. Lines anchored star to star. Hitched on meteors and space stuff. Dust. Artists. Complicated. Simple.

... It’s simply not.
Not you not
god the man the trinity the listen to me law giver
forgiver never give her another chance slant
the scales in your favor if you chant away the
hours in prayer - not a moment of heart there -
words should never be empty.
The richest words just can’t be said
or unsaid. Therein,
lies the mystery ...

…Rituals of my body - some sacred, others close in on
blasphemy. Ugliness can create beauty and they will
build another web. When one dies, another will
carry on across Heaven to places we can’t imagine.
So, not the one you turned the tap on down the
Sink. I asked you not to. You thought me ridiculous.
Doesn’t matter. Not thoughts or the fate of a single
spider. It’s not singular and carries on.
It’s what they’ve done for - how long now - centuries.
Building beauty dot to dot to places
you’d think they’d know better than to go,
but they don’t. They just go. Pilot’s writing.
Not caring, cuz in truth they care so. The wind
carrying the message away before the finished phrase …

… We are all sandcastles. And too, the breaking tide
swelling and lifting in response, washing
our own best efforts away because

... Destruction is quick and easy to do but
not to live with ...

… A voice. Around the same time as the first spider struck,
you made me a tape. It had music and your voice. I played it
over and over. I heard or read somewhere that
with recordings, every time you Listen, a fraction of the sound
is lost - wears away or something - wears off. I feel
those pieces. If they slip away, they slip
into me. Internal transfer.

... Stickers kids collect to mark
the calendar. All 365 boxes. Boxes
and numbers to live within.
That's what we teach them, but
I don't think those bound down numbers
mean a thing to Time ...

…When the tape finally emptied, I was full. A wave, a distinct
frequency, an infrequent, singular occurrence. A constant.
Irreconcileably You. Me...

... Explosions - in themselves, in instant replay -
beautiful - never mind - when the smoke cleared,
what was left? After it hit the house,
when the message written
with a stick in the sand
was washed away …