I Posted a Private Email, Whatever

 

Hi Pete,

“…I doubt I’ll ever see her again.”  Spoken like a hard man: shorthand for dirty dishes and stacks of quarters; the sweat that runs on hot nights; the conversation with overlapping coffee rings.  Nothing new under the sun and I hate the bible. All around me is too much: too much.  How many times will we write about some guy drugging and drinking, wandering around an urban setting; hanging out with whores, dodging people with guns, looking for respite in some dark hole?  How many times will we look in the mirror?  How many times will the woman get fucked over?  How many times the kids abused?  I am right there with you pal.   There is nothing new under the sun, particularly after Amazon and the millions of teachers, bored women, dickheads, and religious nuts started writing about salt, money, and praying for cancer to go away; everybody listening to the live version of their own nightmares.  Fucking hell Pete.  Everybody thinking too hard, working too much, committing suicide way too often, finding new and exciting dead ends; going the wrong way on the repelling wall.  Each beat sends me deeper and I keep my collection of pornography handy.  What to write?  Are you going to dash something off for the Tin Hats?  You better.  We want edgy writing, revealing like your dick dimensions or the last time some woman beat the hell out of you or maybe how much money you stole from your old lovers.  She was in the bathroom crying.  It was midnight at the bar where the women sat in rocking chairs, opening their legs.  You know the one where the riderless horse waited to run to the next town and his back flinched like an ice sheet falling apart.  The end of the alley was a movie screen and the cars slowly edged along the shadows, asking what day is it?  Why…it’s doomsday, of course.  Yes, Pete write something for the Tin Hats and I can guarantee you that despite the brilliance of your words no one will read it and if they do, they will not care, except to lift a few tropes for their own miserable efforts.  This is the Age of Loneliness and I nominate you to be the chief offender.  Your duties are as follows: never change your underwear, always get up before the check comes, offer kind words to only the kind, and remember a lot of people hate you and those who don’t, can’t see you, even when you’re naked in a crowded elevator.  These insights should give you an edge.  I am still in Mexico, surrounded by ex-trophy wives with small dogs.   There is a cloudburst in my head right now.  I need to wipe my eyes.  I have a disease.  Did I tell you about it?  Probably not.  Pete, you need to do something different.  Go running down to the trees where the eagles nest.  Stand there paralyzed and wait for someone to ask you what you’re doing.  Tell them you don’t want to move; that you are waiting for something to happen. That is my advice.  Tell me about it later when you get home.  I want to know every detail.  Thanks.  Duke

 

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