My good brother Reed asks me, is it better to love and lose or never love at all? Well I think you know my answer – yes. Eat at that table. Eat everything. Eat the fuckin table. Eat the chair. The chairs. Eat the air that surrounds & do not go gently. Love is the true – the only way/reason/decision. Fate. Destiny. It is THE. So yes, my friend. Where I separate is do we lose? How can you? It’s eating that fabulous table everything surrounding love. Sure you’ll shit it all out. Process. It’s the trip not the destination. Love ‘til you can’t then you better find a way to love again. Colette ate my heart, veins, Arteries dangled from her teeth. Her chin wet glistening with my blood. Our blood. I love her for that. That woman had balls. Stood up said “no more”. We move forward. Me slower. Retarded. Limping. Love & love again my dear brother. Hell, look what we’ve been thru. Would you want not have to have gone on this trip? Connected. 20+ years apart. 2 peas in a pod. Growing in that garden fueled/fed with beer. Rock & as much love as we can dig. A fuckin watermelon eating festival. Evan was correct when he backed up Mr. Thomas – Do not go gently. It’s ball to the floor.
Reed is a genius. He’s telling me about these stamps, of which are covering this letter & why is Barbara Streisand on them & her name. Well, I’m lost. Somehow he and his buddy mistakes a lion & the words “presorted standard” for “Barbara Streisand”. I lost it. Reed’s perfect. Had a great show @ Club Timbuk2. He & the son’s Highlonesome. Very nice. Reed carries an overabundance of pain. I feel bad at some point but I understand he’s a poet. A true bluesman. Carries the weight of the world in all her fucked broken horrid circumstances. Foot to teeth. Broken boned reality. My brother. More a son. Good man better than most. Hope you can hear his music. His vision. His beauty. You’ll be lucky. Luckier than most. This unsettled cruel existence. Sucked life from the roots. Roots trampled stomped nurtured loved in our-your truly distinctive way.
Got dizzy today. Way sick. Ready to pass out tearing apart pallets. Kept pushing forward ‘til that wall was like “settle down big guy”. I did. My boss called hsu. C.O. drove me there so fast. Was seen really quickly. Ran tests. Tons of questions. Not sure. Need more tests. I’m wiped out. Not my heart. Some sugar thing. Not diabetes. We’ll see. Point here is with so much going on with prisons/jails/hoc, here I got no complaints. They take this seriously. I’m grateful. Professionals. Over crowding is the problem but here there’s nothing that can be done. Again, look at the laws, solutions. You, the taxpayers, the true bosses. Don’t play the politicians game. Shell game. Get my drift?
Cool outside. Feels great. Got 2 more Hemingways from library. So much to do in 24 hours. You got same problem?
Guilty pleasure: that song, new song by Pink. Most of anything off new Wilco album. New Radiohead. What strange memories torment reality when I get out. Just don’t freak if when Radiohead plays and I ask in a polite “queer” tone: “mind if I sleep in your closet? Small empty room?”. Yes, my barrel is sailing over the falls. “Niagra”.