I don't want to get the police involved;
I hoped this issue was rather solved;
Leave my husband alone and we can forget,
And move on;
He is married and has family,
And he lives quite happily;
Just stay away from him;
Try to keep control of your sexual whim.
That was a bad joke...
At this point I know it's over
They've told us where the plane is heading
I've always thought I'd know what to think if something like this happened
But I'm lost here
I'm not thinking about my beautiful wife
Or my daughter
My parents who will outlive me
Or my friends who are off living their lives
I keep thinking about the mailman
No really I do
How he'll have to go around tomorrow
Passing this tale of tragedy
Gracing my family with statistics
Thousands dead thousands hurt
I feel bad for that mailman
For he will never truly understand the pain he will bring
This mailman does not know my name
He does not know my wife, my daughter,
The man next to me,
My first grade teacher, my first girlfriend
He does not know my dog
He does not know my true dreams or my hopes
My ambitions, my musings, my innermost thoughts
No this mailman only knows he is passing out the paper
Delivering news to millions who do not want it
It's 2 in the morning and I'm still awake,
drinking alone, again.
It's not like I have the most interesting job to wake up to
I just deliver words to people's homes
and get chased by dogs every now and then
wondering if they got bad news or not
and how they feel about it
At night, I deliver the words to myself
With the pen in my hand, staining the paper
crafting each word with stories of days that passed me by
Sitting in the dark writing while others are standing
out there in the cold harsh reality, living and breathing
but never did much to achieve that freedom
aside from complaining about it every single day
I never did much either
Maybe I got so used at being a prisoner
That the idea of freedom seems more like a myth
than something we all deserve
After I finished my final bottle, the last of its kind
I walked out and went home, hoping I did my best to drown
my demons and my feelings
It's not until I reached my door that I realized they fucking know how to swim
and they do it so well I might as well let them
I decided I don't want to go home
It's hardly a home anyway
It's just a bunch of furniture crammed in a room
So I would feel less empty
With my pen and my paper I walked
my footsteps behind me echoing until they too,
I threw my keys into the ocean
and should anyone find it, I hope they won't be disappointed
of what they'd find behind the door it opens
I stood at the edge, trying to write a letter
addressed to no one in particular
I wanted to sum it all up in a few words
but I couldn't
I keep worrying about the people
who won't be receiving their letters
And who would deliver mine?
I ended up writing six pages worth of
words I don't even remember writing
All the letters I have inside my bag flew like pigeons on a good day
and I silently wished for the wind to bring them
all to the right addresses
as for my letter addressed to no one in particular
Some of them landed on a puddle
some of them landed on dog shit
As for me, I landed on the concrete
between 6th and 7th street
I made friends with the mailman today.
Because I thought he'd care to know
I'll be gone soon, he won't have to come around for much longer.
He smiled at me, with a hint of uncertainty
and carried on with his daily routine.
I watched the mailman go by again
He was at it again
It reminded me how the days pass by
How theres always thursdays
The mailman goes by day after day
Shoving mail into box after box
I watch him
I watch his technique
He doesnt know im watching
But then slowly people trickle out of their houses
To open the previously closed box
And fondle the previously fondled letter
One letter may be special
So lets be thankful for this doorless truck and his driver
But really its all about the driver
I've limped through another
I got scars to feel especially when they're burned
limited in imagination
sparking only when I
start my car
I get high now, again
it makes little to no sense
online video games
my lighter works
I believe in purification
Ill try to achieve the heights of my imagination
again I try
sometimes twice a day
Tossing the pigskin
Burrowing and displaying the Ostrich effect
All applause for the chairman of the board of trustees
And all the spiddle on his back up shirt
An incomplete pass
Rally the troops
For unfinished business
Reread the post script
"P.S. The unzipped flies of store owners trying to replicate the success of their fathers. Piddle about, play with implements of torture, instruments of destruction. Wander in the wilderness, grunt and sigh as your civilized brain rattles. Make way for Plan B, and fill out the forms in triplicate. Fumbling at the controls, emergency landing. The gear shift and crankshaft have given out. Listen to the titillating chatter of the disappointed passengers who all longed for the window seat.
Edmund Balthazar "
I could slap you
you wrote me a letter with you signature
in that letter was lines of lust. this lust was deep you talked about .. curves ,breast , lips
i read on and thought damn he moves me with so much passion i sworn it was because he loved me
because i was the only woman that feed him songs of freedom . freedom from the chains of pain
late nights of running through each others minds.
you wrote me a letter with your signature in that letter was lines of secrets you talked about your past i read on
then understood i couldnt be your little secret anymore. i would have to leave you alone you wrote me a letter with your signature in in that letter was lines of mysery the paper wet from your tears and in bold letter was the reason why. you said the lost of compassion kept you up late. tossing and turning in bed. and that you havent ate .
you wrote me a letter with your signature in that letter was lines of love. deep love that you wanted to experience. love that wasnt judging but forgiving . i read thet letter thinking we could have done better. grab my hand i can take you back to your begining when you and i were kings and queens
at the bottom was a p.s. stating that you have moved on.
and what we shared had been lost.
that time was wasted being with me. you needed space to breathe. and thats when i knew that the writing was not about me.
This old box stands in memory
of who we were. I remember often
running to drop my treasured
envelope into it, I opened the
awaiting abyss drawer, so deep
I shuddered wondering where
and how far my letter would travel.
Would it be alone, on the bottom
while others piled upon it and lost
it buried forever only to be retrieved
by the kind mailman’s gathering bag,
or would it float atop pile high mixed
feelings, sad, earnest, love, peaceful
letters waiting to find its recipient
so far away or maybe close by.
The paint is peeled and faded,
a lonely iconic box, holding memories,
from so many peoples and races,
they felt compelled to write, to seal,
stamp and run to this box, fearing
being too late for pickup, yet
knowing that no matter what, their
letter would eventually reach their
Comforting words to many, a letter
was the kindest, most sincerest way to
convey one’s feelings, the tone, the
language, the importance of expressing
heart rendering, though words may be
lost in translation, they were important
to the reader, the battle worn soldier
waiting for news from family and friends,
a shut in bed ridden victim of sickness,
tears heavy on their paled cheeks
waiting to read their only connection
to the outside of heaven or hell’s gate.
Now a victim of history, it’s slow demise
to the digital rapid wireless world,
this box is a conveyor of so
many thoughts, it received us
without any questions asked,
it simply opened up its lid allowing
us to fill it with so many messages
it took into it’s soul, it never failed us,
it never criticized our content, it kept
our secret messages safe, private
and sound, awaiting the early truck
to empty it and move its soul contents
to all recipients near and far.
So many faded letters I have
as cherished memories of
deliverance from this box,
its faithfulness never faltering,
weathering all storms, it stood tall,
erect and always ready to
receive and deliver on time.
I now sit, untie the ribbon of
precious memories before me,
though faded; these letters
were received with love.
Thank you big red for receiving
them and finding me, I am alive
but for these letters that my love
wrote to me before she passed,
the ink smudged, her perfume
still lingers on their pages,
oh my love, you are missed,
but thankfully I hold you close
to my bosom, these letters fill
me so and I remember receiving
each and every one of them,
my days and nights fulfilled with
your sweet memory.
Vincent Moore 2014
there are some things that will be impossible to pawn at garage sales,
when little, yellow 25 cent tags just won't stick--
i stuck to you--
and they get caught between the toothpaste and your hair brush.
there's a woman at the door wearing my shoes.
there are some things that you cross out,
and others that you leave for the mailman.
sometimes you imagine him opening the letters,
and signing your name at the bottoms.
you know that he's in love with you.
there are some things that the woman with
your shoes won't tell you, like where
you left your keys or why your orchids are wilting.
but she'll sit you right on down for everything else.
she'll offer you coffee in your house,
and when you say no,
she'll make some for herself,
with two creamers and no sugar,
which is absolutely the wrong way.
the mailman will wave from the back window,
where she can't see, and mouth,
"tonight at five?"
he'll nudge love letters under
your front door,
just like in old fashioned movies,
where the girls all wore skirts
and drank sodas through twirly straws.
the lady with your shoes will say,
"lay off the mailman.
you're scaring him."
there are some things that just get caught.