Dear Brett


Dear Brett

I don’t want to go out for lunch. I know the weather’s great

            but, disrobed for summer, America cannot hide the ravages.

Grotesque fractures, never set right, easily rebreak

            breasts sucked dry—deflated—

sagging cocks and bags— real arousal but a dream

            drip of comfort seeking convenience seeking ease

cough and sneeze of cash and want.

            Brett, your instincts are good— it is time to get back out there

connect, circulate, spend lest we clot.

            But I remember how things are—

Barb and Zoe and mom and Uncle Frick and Grammy Laura and

            Senator Richman and Justice Judgeman and NFL owners

Napoleonic cops and plain Officer Krupkes

            all the fat thin spenders and addicts and drinkers of Fireball and

Bombay Sapphire— online porn stars and their intense clawed gapers

            Mick Jagger and the lady who wrote Eat Pray Love and

His Highness, the Baby, and the tech bros who made click prisons—         

            I cede the world to them— of course I miss you when I stay in mine

but not too much— and who’s to say which is real and which is fantasy?

            It’s backwards, Brett.

So go out and eat falafel in the park named for U.S. Grant

            Send back a status report when you can.


10 thoughts on “Dear Brett

  1. fantastic. fucking fantastic. I wanted to read something this morning but the news just kills me. This descent. Your work does the trick. Reminds me of how demented it’s all become. But facts just can get at how broken I feel…how broken it all is. And yet, your voice reminds me I’m not alone. Maybe there’s a way out but I don’t see it. At least I feel some comfort with

    I was in Portland over the weekend. Such a disconnect between the siege that takes up just a few blocks and the rest of the city and the rest of the city is just moving albeit with masks and distance. “Keep Portland Weird” signs compete with “Black Lives Matter”.

  2. “of course I miss you when I stay in mine

    but not too much”
    Exactly. I guess a poem does its work when it says something I was feeling, but couldn’t quite put words to. Keep writing them. It may be our only antidote.

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