are ya'll down there?
It is sunday 10:45
and I'm lonesome as Hank Williams ever was.
I write this letter
to have an excuse to go out walking.
It's cold here.
Never thought Florida would be cold.
Check the weather in the paper,
you'll see Florida gets chilly...
The ocean wind can be cold.
You know what I'm thinking of.
And all that means.
You may have some idea of what I mean.
But I would be lonesome
on those dark streets of Shadowville, too.
I'm doing okay,
just so lonesome.
This almost looks like a poem.
Ah, such is life.
Take care, and write soon.
Life force rattles I feel it in my flesh,
one love like the rasta told me.
Flying mystery I saw as a child,
wet and rapid, floating grey and smiling,
electric and aware,
you are good humor sweet angel of death.
To that point where the silver glistens,
under soft ground where our people play.
Blue territory no longer mine,
Op bop, see it with your mind, hear it with your soul.
What now for us, my twisted dark love?
Monket love, baby love, rolling in the red bugs love,
puppy love, good sweet love, paid for love, back door love,
old love, or make believe love?
Just show me the sign, crack open my mind,
op bop, visual mental abstract and imperfect.