Letter To The Senator

Dear senator,

I just want you to know that I haven’t died yet. I’ve been huffin’ gas and glue across this great nation of ours. The good ol’ U.S. of A supplies me with such ingenuities to be so free. I’ve been living on a park bench in the natural forest that is this great city. Which city? you may ask, all of them, every single one. I know things have been rough for you. You know, with all the diseases and natural disasters running amok. All you need to do is just remember that the real world sneaks in there sometimes. Backs ache, teeth clenched, the IRS waving hello to you. All of these contribute to the assassination of your future happiness. The middle of the night, orange moons, tears of rain, everybody tucked into their beds with sweet dreams of adultery, this isn’t for you.

The world has left you to wander in it alone, as have I. The whore that is the world wants more and more and in return flashes a glare of false sympathy and that monotonous noise of mourning. Normality, the cool calmness, there is no such thing for us. For we both know, through collective experience, that the seasons leaves holes for us to fall into. The forest leaves branches for us to trip over. I know, my verse is weak, my words as unworthy as the burden I carry onto this great nation. My words used to carry the truth! Now they carry only the echoes of my weathered old mind and the fleeting sense of feeling in my right arm. Righty tighty and the left is still loose as a goose. But dear lady, know that I still love you and that the only way I can conjure up good feelings for you is by huffin’ gas and glue. I love you.

Love, Me.