The 18th of March 1992 – Baton Rouge, Louisiana

(found by a popped bit of rubbery latex and a long ribbon)

Dear Ida,

Wouldn’t it be nice to just float away? This world is so heavy, so loud, so bright and garish. I wish it were easy. I wish I could make the chance. I wish I could get a better hand.

I look up into the sky most nights, every night in fact, and I see those stars. Bulbs of floating gas and totally free of the pull of all this stuff that surrounds me. How beautiful it would be, how amazing and freeing it would be to just float up there with them.

There’s blood here, Ida. Blood here everywhere. Puddles of it, and no matter how many times I go out with my broom or my mop, I have no chance of cleaning up this mess. That’s when I look up to the sky and see the clouds. My shoes stick to the tarmac sometimes. It gets dry and thick like spilled glue. Always on me, pulling me and holding me in place.

I could float like the clouds. I could do just as good a job of it as those puffy bales of water vapor can. But I never got the chance. I’m just down here with the screams and cries and headaches. The promises and the prophets and the coins. But I wish with all my heart to just float away, to leave it beneath me and to become as pure as the stars and the clouds and the bright, bright blue that goes on and on up there.

Another gunshot. Another cry and another scream.

When does this become hopeless?



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s