a letter i wish i could send but i can't

xxxx 19th Ave. NE

 Seattle, WA, 98105 

October 6, 2008

Dear Uncle Doc,

I miss you. We all miss you. And I would like to see you sometime soon. Grandma said you didn’t go far since we last saw each other. It has been a long time, and many things have changed. I assume that Grandma or Aunt Debbie already told you but, just so you know, some important things that have happened to me recently were my 18th birthday in July, becoming an Eagle Scout, and graduating from high school. I’m attending the University of Washington in Seattle right now, and my parents feel comfortable with me joining the fraternity xxxx. I have been really enjoying college, my classes are interesting, and everyone in the fraternity is welcoming. 

If I am remembering correctly the last time I saw you was at Grandma’s house. Then, I had the suspicion that you had a mental disorder of some sort, but now I am certain of it. In objective terms, your actions have been irrational. It bothered me hearing you explain that the government was after you, and that they were breaking into your car and staining the carpet with dangerous chemicals; these among other things you said. We love you, and we’re not out to get you, we’re trying to help you. I know that my attempts to convince you are futile, but you should know that persuasion isn’t my reason for this letter. 

My thoughts of you used to be conflicting. I was annoyed after several months when you hadn’t turned up, and I didn’t know what to think of you other than a poor uncle who was never around anymore to see me grow up. But now, after much thought, I’ve realized that I have no right to judge you because whatever it is that has affected you, be it the government, stalker people, or an illness, it is something unintentional and unfortunate that has hit you harder than it has hit anyone else. Sorry that I’ve misunderstood you for so long. 

You have been an important influence in my life, especially as a child. When I can’t fall asleep, I search for a happy memory. Usually, I end up thinking about our time working on the treehouse in the summer. As young as I was then, you always let me help out even when I bent all the nails and stripped all the heads off the screws. Uncle Doc, you were always the cool uncle and always teaching me, about girls, about carpentry, and about my own parents. Thanks for your stories about Poland and the Marines. Thanks for telling me about your adventures with my dad, revealing a more relaxed and fun side of him that I never knew existed. I remember you loved to tell me about conspiracies, political or religious, and strange beliefs on nutrition, as well as your obsession with peanuts and other silly things. But remember that, even as a child, I always listened to you. 

I’m sorry, I have judged you so harshly with your cigarette addiction. Now I know there were more important things that were occurring in your life. You’ve always been replete with ingenuity and motivation while building up your business. These are traits that I hope to encounter in the future while persuing my career.

Although I feel as if I’ve resolved my conflicting opinions of you, there’s no real way I can see us resolving the conflict of our separation without your effort. We’re disconnected physically, communicatively, and psychologically. I’m still uncertain of your opinion on me, how you remember me now (do you still see me as a child?) or if you even want to get back in touch. The decision to get back in touch is ultimately yours. You can call me at (847) 239-xxxx or just send a letter to xxxx 19th Street NE, Seattle, WA, 98105. Lastly, please, in all fairness, take this letter with open-minded consideration for it was written in complete sincerity.

Much love from your nephew,

Richie

P.S. Over the summer I roamed Krakow for a day because of a transfer flight from Paris to back home. I know you love Poland and I hope to tell you about it sometime.

Ethereality 123!

I just added all my poetry that I like. Tomorrow, different poetry will appeal to me and I will most likely post it. I'm not a real poet, as far as I know, I'm just playing with words and testing ways I can put them together. It's all just fun and games. I made a mix with rilo kiley, animal collective and biggie. That was the highlight of my day. 

Tomorrow's Christmas eve and as a family we're all going to church. It will be dreadful. I wish I could stay home and meditate, read some neitzsche, some Vonnegut, and listen to Tom Yorke. Hey! Ethereality 123! Reverence ABC!....Way better. To me, organized religion is like a meal plan. And why would I like a meal plan if I could have a buffet? I like to pick and choose. I like to mix my mashed potatoes with my macaroni and cheese. I want to make a sacred milkshake. I'll put the best parts of Jesus, Moses, and mohammed in a blender and it will be so delicious I could just die. 

Snow day

Today I lived in the security of:

 

              Turtle necks

  Comedy Central

  Hot Cider

  And retrieving popcorn with dental floss,

I’m lost when I’m trapped and I like being trapped

But I don’t like homebodies when I’m not a homebody

And I don’t like snow-clad bodies when I have no boots

So,

when the plows in park

when the heating bill isn’t saving my life

when the bottoms of my jeans don’t get moist

And when I don’t need to call to get an answer

I want to make a snowman, that resembles me

And you can name it whomever you’d like

Intimate not Sexual

Steel straight arrow tracks 

Lie on every perfect tie

They tell us you’re on a train

To a place where you can’t be loved by heart

But rather brain

Where your indifference to smooth chrome in hell

Makes me lust for your natural sweaty smell

Childhood Dreams

You could also be a rocketeer

Aircraft designer

Design a lot of aircrafts

And learn

how it works

Artist

Draw a lot

Maper

Statistical Analysis

No face soldiers in Iraq

They don’t have pencils

Between stations on the El

They don’t have adjectives 

Between the holes in the sewer grates

They don’t have significance

Between the fabrics of their uniforms

Moral Anesthetic

The oldest anesthetic is born

In the cold dead hands of prisoners

When we supported Sam

As he called for war

It is medicine for the mind

Of the pilot who shot his first man

And the other ones on the ground 

That the communists ran

At home the soldiers sweetly smile

While quietly parading the streets

Knowing they will crave morality 

Back home, to aid their sleep

Familiar Street Dust

Filth, grime, dirty fingernails and a cracked window for your cigarette. You’ve got bloodshot eyes and shit stained teeth. I can see those wrinkles that make your face sag like a scrotum from miles away. You fit the night like your clothes fit your persona. Because those slim-cut khakis are a bit too baggy. Street lamps ripple your face and your chapped lips that don't move more than a quiver as you watch your girl through the rearview mirror. She passed out in the back seat and is smearing make up on the felt interior. You are swallowing white lines and breathing familiar street dust all the way home.

Lot Polish Tarmac

Vincent!

And a brief inhale

Long exhale

Vincent!

Comme les fourmis

Like ants

But not really

Because they don't care for their children

Vincent! 

Calls the woman once more, looking for her child

But it is too late:

"Please board the plane for Krakow"

A Guest of the Monetarastic Life

My life is the awkward entanglement of sex,

All of its peculiar nuances

All of its soulful idiosyncrancies

It's my holy baptized christened flesh 

And saw dust in a solar breeze

Sharpened to death 

By a seemingly perennial persona

Always neutral

Always gay

Always artificial

* * *

I realized all of this in a foreign land

In a restaurant where there are 3 kinds of spoons

And endless wine

Where I dreamed

I lusted for cigarettes

I gazed into white clouds and blue mountains 

And the sharp contrast between blue and white

Where the blue mountains are penetrating the white clouds......

I thought, 

Am I afraid of this awkwardness?

Or do I wish to get drunk with the solace of my friends

Runaway Umbrella

Windy sandy summer morning

Coffee too weak for my hangover

Waves too worn out for my ears

So I rub my eyes

And swallow flesh that feels

More like melted rubber

As a lifeguard sitting on a high throne

I witness a runaway umbrella

Sandbar

There is a patch of gold

In my room

On my floor

Between the swoops and swirls of crumpled paper

Where I can pretend to see the sky under

Tundra ceiling and a misplaced smoke detector

Enough to salty yawn as frantic tendrils stretch

And to grind holy residue under nails

To later remind you

There is a patch of gold

In my room

On my floor

I Used to be Superman

I used to be superman

But I lost my costume

Ten years ago, to some

Superhero girlfriend

We soared together between

Rectangular Stalagmites

I held her head 

And we kissed on

Steady ground with

An American flag backdrop

I used to be superman

But my mom found it worn

In the laundry

She ripped it up

Turned it into a rag

I used to be superman

Heavy Genes

Dear Mr. Khaki Shorts

Dear Mr. Flannel Shirt

You're the 5th generation

From the man who you wish to be

All the dusty things in your house

The dead piano in your living room

Creaking like a rocking chair

And fraying like wicker

Because it holds your weight

See Ya in the Funny Papers

It was cold

So we gave him a big fat tip

The man who politely rang the doorbell

To call my Dad sir 

And

To call my Mom miss

The family movie night

Leftovers mummified in saran wrap

Unearthed tomorrow and 

Resurrected in the microwave as:

"Happy Birthday!" party artifacts

The ones a gentleman won't enjoy

Because of a teenage boy

Lazy in sweat pants

Tangled hair

No socks

Will roll out of bed and down to the kitchen 

Where the gentleman will be standing

Waiting to say in an alluring and compassionate voice:

"I know you're hungry Rich, I can see it in your face. 

Come here and eat this."

The boy will nod at the pizza

Emanating deliciousness 

And say:

"But are you sure Papa? This is your piece of pizza, isn't it?"

And Grandpa will smile

Happier than ever before

To respond:

"It's alright, I don't grow no more"

Remembering Poland

the creativity of a child triggers nostalgia

stucco ashen sky, grazing whipped vapors

like pastel mirrors for your favorite smell of

mother's deep red hair when she whispered:

"Can you remember coy footing to a foreign land?

It's a forgotten place, but the same old stars"