During the war, I was in China.
Every night we blew the world to hell.
The sky was purple and yellow
like his favorite shirt.

I was in India once
on the Ganges in a tourist boat.
There were soldiers,
some women with parasols.
A dead body floated  by
going in the opposite direction.
My son likes this story
and requests it each year at Thanksgiving.

When he was twelve,
there was an accident.
He almost went blind.
For three weeks he lay in the hospital,
his eyes bandaged.
He did not like visitors,
but if they came
he'd silently hold their hand as they talked.

Small attentions
are all he requires.
Tell him you never saw anyone
so adept
at parallel parking.

Still, your life will not be easy.
Just look in the drawer where he keeps his socks.
Nothing matches.  And what's the turtle shell
doing there, or the map of the moon,
or the surgeon's plastic model of a take-apart heart?

You must understand --
he doesn't see the world clearly.
Once he screamed, "The woods are on fire!"
when it was only a blue cloud of insects
lifting from the trees.

But he's a good boy.
He likes to kiss
and be kissed.
I remember mornings
he would wake me, stroking my whiskers
and kissing my hand.

He'll tell you -- and it's true --
he prefers the green of your eyes
to all the green life
of heaven and earth.

burdened with the weight of it all,
the camel stops and lies
in the middle of the desert

the man driving the herd--
the herd that's laden
with tired, overworked
camels, walks toward the downtrodden
offender with his arm outstretched
and in his palm, sat a pistol--

then, he hesitates--

as he stares into the eyes of
the camel--
deeply--
intrigued--
but beyond that,
he felt a sense of calm, which
soon turned sour--
everything turns sour

he gazed into the dark abyss
of the pistol
turned it toward his temple
and pulled the trigger

all the camels scattered--
except the one lying down

he placed his head in the sand,
then slept
in memory of
the
fallen
herder

on edges of swing set of summer of child
I grow -- a rust abloom while ghosts
of women once called "mother" do push
a wind a creak a falling leaf feathering
downward, candied sentiment traveling
forward

for hope for empty swing to fill to turn
the chronometer back to *12 noon, March 6, 1972

Funny. I have a similar problem. When a waitress drops in to take a drink order, I can never look her in the eye. Guilt, I suppose. There’s nothing she’s doing for me I can’t do for myself. Legs work. Hands work. Let me walk to the water dispenser and press the glass into it. Let me pick up my food. Let me carry it to my table. You take it easy, sweetheart. So, instead of meeting her pupils, I find myself reading and re-reading her nametag. A silent mantra. Tara. Tara. Tara.

Thank you for saying I should be “held by my edges.” That’s a candy-coated take on the truth. A more accurate description would have been “*******.” Oh, the toxic mix of shame, alcohol, and letter writing. I’m a new man, though. Cologne and everything. I’m even done drinking. Well, after I finish this beer. Still had one in the fridge. Anyway, I’m sorry.

No, women like Heather don’t disappear cleanly. Or with grace. In the silent moments, she always looked at me like I might hit her. She’ll probably tell friends I did. Everyone enjoys a good story. She called Friday. Said she’d taken some X. Dancing on her couch. I could join her or just watch. I just hung up. Did I tell you she’s really into Anime? And she attaches faux foxtails to her belt. I’m not sure if one of those traits is responsible for the other. Wish she didn’t know where I lived.

Aren’t we both brothers in the breed of Cain?
You should be able to sympathize with this pain, right?
Or maybe, by now, my mask has rendered me unrecognizable.
And yours too.
We’d probably walk right past each other in the streets.
We’ve probably walked right past each other in the streets and never knew.

i drank
she smiled
i talked
we sank
i paused
she spoke
but then
she waned
the times
she feigned
you say
we sat
i thought
we stood
you glance
i smoke
we read
drink tea
touch skin
bare bone
and then
go home
and fall
with sleep
to night

You'll love her with all your skin, tongue and lungs.
The way that the air is just so much more crisp whenever she's in proximity to your hands.
It turns the scattered dust in the atmosphere into magnifying glasses
Aimed directly at her
Spotlighting everything you wish you could put into words but can't
Because she's just too ******* unbelievable
That even if you tried, you would offend yourself and the gods with how little it compares to
The love she makes you feel in reality.

You would do everything for her.
Hold her until your bones start to crack
So that she'll understand just what you mean
When you tell her that you'll never let her go.
But she still doesn't get it.
She'll never understand that when you tell her that you want nothing more
Than to let your dust be her dust, her words to be in your cheeks
Her nose to be your daughters nose
You mean that you want nothing more than to keep her forever.

But you never will.
Because you never stood a chance.
You thought that by giving your whole self over to her she would offer you the same respect.
That's not how this world works.
It never was.
These valiant efforts of yours are now dubbed selfish and inconsiderate by others
For not taking her feelings into account.
Because she doesn't know what true love is.
She never felt the need to have you near.
For her daughters smile to be your smile.
For your hands to cradle her head when she's sad.
To let you talk for hours without listening to a single ******* word you're saying,
Because she's lost in the sound of your voice.

Because she doesn't know how to accept anything she isn't willing to give.

I guess I saw her at the third and final bar I went last night. You would have liked watching her. Her face cut like stone -- a reincarnation of an Easter Island statue -- and like those statues, if you kept digging I'm sure she had a body underneath.

From my end of the bar, it looked like she ordered a gin and tonic. She barely drank it, but that's not to say she didn't touch it. She stabbed the ice repeatedly with a cocktail stirrer as if to say give me something to look forward to.

You were right about riding into bars lone wolf. It only works during the afternoon. That's all there is then. Thirsty wolves. But at night, everyone is paired off neatly and wrapped into each other like pretty little presents with shiny red bows.

I agree about the crippling lack of ***. But unlike you, I wouldn't call myself frustrated. Just crippled. And I know if you'd been at the bar, you would have told me to approach Easter Island, but I've been lonely so long that I've grown addicted to the feeling. It's a blanket of sorts. And it's been cold lately.

A man sat next to me at the bar. Corduroy jacket, red sweater over white collared shirt. His hair messily spiked, his face messily shaved, and he kept chatting up a sad-eyed woman in a sadder black dress. I don't remember much of the conversation because I was trying not to eavesdrop. He did say something about time though. He said it was all a straight line. That's the reason we forget things. Progress. Progress makes the people we used to be peel off. The molted skin gets carried off by the wind. I thought you'd like that. Though I don't agree with it.

If time is a straight line, why is what I had for breakfast right next to a three-year-old memory of sleeping beside Karen two weeks after our divorce. It all seems disjointed to me. Not random. But at least partially broken.

Easter Island wore purple pants. I forgot to mention that. She also had a bronze crucifix around her neck. And long brown curls. The cross would have been off-putting if I'd seen her a few months ago, but as you know I'm trying to fix myself. A little dose of religion might be good for me. If nothing else at least a dose of wild kindness.

I apologize for talking so much about myself. So, return the favor. This morning, I read from that Callahan book you got me. The chill in the air made me wish you were in the bed beside me. Reading over my shoulder. Though that was in another window of time. One next to my memory of you putting cinnamon in the coffee grounds before you started a brew.

For what it's worth, I miss you.

Tim sounds nice. I mean reads nice. By what you described, he seems like he treats you alright. Rock n' roll. Movin' on. Proud of you.

Sorry he found that letter I wrote you a few weeks ago. Though it means a lot you kept it. Aren't remnants of past lovers interesting? It's not enough for us to take pieces of each other as we press forward, but we also have to leave little trinkets to remind of the good, the bad, and indifferent times.

Tara left her favorite burnt, metallic necklace with a blue buddha charm embedded in the carpet when I lived at 2307. Thousands of hairpins were hidden throughout the place when Sam and I split. You threw that gypsy bracelet in the grass by the streetlight -- the one I got you in Colorado.

Karen didn't leave much with me. Instead certain shirts and pajama pants of mine -- became hers. She put a smell on them. I still can't wear the clothes; though I also can't get rid of them. I'm a hoarder. Keep all the memories for myself.

Do you ever dream of me?

No, I haven't seen Easter Island again. I looked Sunday night at O'Brien's. I imagine she was in one of those modern restaurants --  Japanese trees, Muzak -- with her white napkin folded neatly in her lap, drinking ice water, and humoring some fast-talking crazer who has a snowball's chance in hell with her. If I ever find the energy, I'd like to be that crazer.

Yes, I'm still night driving. I've got a big adventure planned for tomorrow. I'll tell you all about it. Tell me something honest in your next letter. Something you're afraid to tell me.

I'll learn to accept Tim. I promise.