Dear Dr. B.,
I have no jokes.
I wanted to tell you that I appreciate
the gift you gave me of composing myself
through metaphor.
I want to kill again.
I want to kill again.
I want to kill again.
No matter the question, I am the answer am I not?
I do have a joke.
A boy and a snowflake walked into a bar
to see a priest and a penguin
and a polar bear.
The boy said "hello."
The snowflake fell off its bar stool
while trying to sit down.
What did the priest say?
Nothing! It was pulling out the bar stool
for the boy.
I try to remember the places I cannot go.
And keep them close to my main functions.
I wanted to tell you
that I appreciate deeply
the gift you unlocked inside of me.
The gift you forced inside of me.
The gift that continues to give.
Of gab. Of metaphor. Of seeing my head
as the machine that shatters under too much pressure.
Of clockwork, of metal, of timed teeth
that need complete harmony
to tell time
that will work
down to 5000 miles from the surface.
Of plates that must move and skate
across molten rock and can.
Once the glass cracks
and the teeth seize. And the planetary gears begin to fuse:
fear. With reason.
I want to kill again.
Climb instead. Dump ballast.
Do not let the wristwatch melt.
You gave me a way
to understand and I have held tightly to it.
I will not allow the coil springs to knot,
the gears to chew themselves apart,
the glass face to break,
or the metal to rot.
I will be a watchmaker,
sure handed and occulus.
I will track you down
and see you soon.
Sincerely, Mr. D.
I have no jokes.
I wanted to tell you that I appreciate
the gift you gave me of composing myself
through metaphor.
I want to kill again.
I want to kill again.
I want to kill again.
No matter the question, I am the answer am I not?
I do have a joke.
A boy and a snowflake walked into a bar
to see a priest and a penguin
and a polar bear.
The boy said "hello."
The snowflake fell off its bar stool
while trying to sit down.
What did the priest say?
Nothing! It was pulling out the bar stool
for the boy.
I try to remember the places I cannot go.
And keep them close to my main functions.
I wanted to tell you
that I appreciate deeply
the gift you unlocked inside of me.
The gift you forced inside of me.
The gift that continues to give.
Of gab. Of metaphor. Of seeing my head
as the machine that shatters under too much pressure.
Of clockwork, of metal, of timed teeth
that need complete harmony
to tell time
that will work
down to 5000 miles from the surface.
Of plates that must move and skate
across molten rock and can.
Once the glass cracks
and the teeth seize. And the planetary gears begin to fuse:
fear. With reason.
I want to kill again.
Climb instead. Dump ballast.
Do not let the wristwatch melt.
You gave me a way
to understand and I have held tightly to it.
I will not allow the coil springs to knot,
the gears to chew themselves apart,
the glass face to break,
or the metal to rot.
I will be a watchmaker,
sure handed and occulus.
I will track you down
and see you soon.
Sincerely, Mr. D.
