Some year ago, In the spirit of creative collaboration I placed a blank sheet of white paper in my typewriter. This typewriter lived in the main room of my home that I shared with several wonderful humans. As the year passed by I would notice my friends wander over and see the invitation. They would click clack out a few lines picking up where the last person had left off. Just now I unpacked this typewriter here in Boise to write a letter. Waiting for me inside was this piece of paper and below I tell our story:
just listen. never. because it hurts.
i left you on my bedside table for safe keeping…
i think about you like time.
always leaving. yet always here.
when the smoke started to clear, i was glad you were still there
but today i am just angry. really fucking angry.
and today i am happy. with my middle finger in the air.
really fucking happy.
apparently we weren’t designed for survival.
just for a moment of time.
just enough for things to change
but not enough to stay that way.
if this is love
I just want something to do with it
and then before any of the village
people knew it was
they asked who /
is November? the sky had cleared and it felt nothing like the smokey range
of October. It worried her when things didn’t work out the way she had thought she wanted them to.
She acted like he was some sort of fucking novelty.
some kind of bleak truth was that she had the whole thing coming out
that was, some kind of backwardsssssss
even on the good days, she still had
it coming some kind of bad through the windows.
she typed by had so no one would ever
find a record of her sorrow.
they thought she was coming for them but she had other things in mind
the village people knew and they told her
she asked for a couple more but at this
point it was like living on borrowed time .