First off, I would like to thank you for what you said about seeing a “marked improvement” in my poetry.
That being said…SPACE-CARS?!? Seriously, Peter. My poem is not about Space Cars. If it even makes you THINK of Space Cars, you must have some kind of reading problem, because that is fucking stupid. Let’s go through it all. Believe me, it’ll benefit you when I’m famous so you don’t look like an ass telling people I write poems about Space Cars, when the rest of the world knows the truth, and can see my vision! The poem is obviously about the dark side of pollution:
– The Kiss of Fate here is clearly the Sun. The sun floats in the sky like a hot Hershey’s Kiss. And “fate” is because it’s the sun. Clearly the sun has a lot to do with our fate.
– It seriously couldn’t be any more obvious, Peter. The sun provides me (by which I obviously mean The Earth, because, as I told you before I left, I’m working on my epic masterpiece in which I write poems with the Earth as the narrator) with all the chances the sky needs to sanitize the highways. Ok, well The Earth’s saying “The Sun’s giving me everything I need to clean these highways,” but then “as the cars fly by” is saying “perhaps, but the cars keep coming.”
It is now that we feel the intense drama that is this poem. The narrator, the Earth, wants to clean his highways, and the big Kiss in the sky wants to help, but the cars keep coming.
– This line depicts an epic battle whose size and magnitude have never been seen in all our human wars. Even if you combine the War of 1812 with the prophesized war between good and evil in Revelations, you would not even come close to the DRAMA of this line. Think about it: it all rhymes, AND it shows the cars, “vroom,” the bombs, “kaboom,” old-timeyness like the War of 1812, “spitoon,” and the battle, “platoon.” The war between moral obligation and a harsh reality is underway.
– Well, what can we do to help the Earth’s battle against this dark beast of pollution? It is us. We hold up the stars at night, by which I of course mean it’s our trash on the highway. But we can’t clean it up, because we’ll only make more. Much like how we may hold up the stars, but some of them don’t even exist anymore–their light just finally reached earth. So we are holding up everything and nothing, the dark and the light, the used condoms on the side of the road and the trash bag. What can we do?
THAT, Peter, is what this poem means. Hopefully you see how obvious it all was now.
And thank you for the $100! It is much appreciated. I’m sorry that your mom has such little faith in my ability to survive on my own. As you can tell by this letter, I am still very much ALIVE.
I got off the bus at the Omaha Bus Station, then walked to the Post Office. I picked up your letter and this cash. I was going to, as you said, use it on a train or bus ticket to get me to California safely, but then I realized something: I’m only 74 miles away from the home of former Poet Laureate and all around amazing man TED KOOSER! The last time I checked his Wikipedia page, it said he lived near Garland, Nebraska.
So, I started walking the 74 miles to Mr. Kooser’s house. I started to get very tired after only 12 hours of walking. Luckily, someone passing by saw me, and was nice enough to give me a ride! I explained who I was, my dream of being a poet, and my desire to be dropped off at Ted Kooser’s House.
I am now at a homeless shelter in nearby Lincoln, NE. The man who picked me up told them I was a crazy homeless man with delusions of grandeur. I have heeded your advice and shaved my beard, since I was unable to convince anyone here that not only was I a poet and not homeless, but that I was only 28 years old (the average guess here was 54). I have since thought of some poets that were clean shaven, and that has helped.
Everyone is very nice here, and they provide with me food. However, I am planning on running away tomorrow (tonight’s meatloaf!) to get advice from a former Poet Laureate!
Thanks for not telling the IRS where I was. It’s a shame that tax evasion is currently biting me in the ass in the form of an empty donation tin. This is why I have sent, along with this letter, a much LARGER vessel I found under the beds here.
I’m happy to hear about things going well between you and Cheryl. You and her go great together, and you know I believe that, so I hope you don’t take offense, but tell that bitch to keep her whore body out of my damn room! If she even thinks of laying one slutty finger on that doorknob, tell her I will personally write the most SCATHING poem I can, and title it “Cheryl: Diary of an ASSHOLE.”
Sorry man. I just still can’t forgive her for killing James Patterson, Emperor of The Currents (or “the guinea pig” as she whorishly called him). She couldn’t even do me the simple favor of taking a week off work to give him his shots at the appropriate times when you and I left to go on a “Poet’s Bender.”
I’ll check the Post Office in Garland, Nebraska for your reply. If you have any more money to donate, it would be much appreciated. I plan on spending this $100 taking Ted Kooser to a nice restaurant for dinner.