Dear Dr. B.,
I haven't thought of any good jokes.
Maybe one, "any" is a very big word
you reminded me earlier this week
ten years ago.
Here goes:
What do you call a shooting star on an overcast night?
Wishful thinking.
Have you ever woken ready to tear
yourself apart so that you would not break and twist
and twist the limbs of another human being
until the snapped off like stubborn Winter branches,
Spring still filling their insides?
You are the calmest man I know.
My watch keeps breaking.
It still works. I try not to squeeze it too hard.
I try to keep it dry. Some weather can be helped,
but umbrellas really are for suckers.
Stay home, if you are that concerned about a little water.
You never mentioned there was nothing to be done
for atmospheres.
I do have a lot of pockets to keep
what springs loose safe.
This morning I awoke ready to kill.
I brushed my teeth ready to kill.
I got dressed ready to kill.
I ate lightly, ready to kill.
I stepped toward my door and saw
the Wyle E. Coyote chasing a powder fuse
blowing frantically as it wound its way through desert maze,
moments away, off screen,
the boxes printed in red block lettering:
T N T,
so I turned around and headed to the bathroom. Vomit.
I tore my clothes off and tripped over my pants atop shoes.
I fought my way free and fumbled back to bed
to lie awake until I could disarm my head.
Am I a cartoon?
Tell me what it means. I cannot remember
the voices shouting "lock the door"
the way they do today. What happened
while we slept?
Sincerely, Mr. D.
