I met someone recently you'd like. His name is Herman. You two would be friends. Herman and you. You and Herman. Both of you so straight forward, so oblivious. He hasn't once stopped to look at the trees. So gorgeous, red and orange. The best time of year by a mile. But none of that registers to a caterpillar I suppose.
Caterpillars pee oozy stuff when they inch along human skin. I hope it's pee anyway. It's making a big gooey line on my hand as I'm writing this. If you were here I'd wipe it on you. Herman's poop-pee smeared on you unsuspecting neck. "It's hand sany-tizer, you can't afford any germs this season," I'd say like your mom. You'd probably wipe it off and keep walking, one foot after the other. If you cared to wipe.
I don't feel bad that Thomas died. I need you to know that. He was my least favorite person when he was alive and now that he's dead he is my second, and I'm including Hitler. I'm including Adolph fucking Hitler. The man responsible for my Bubbe being starved and stripped and murdered inside of a gas chamber. Your brother was cold cow shit mixed with rust and although I admit I did ONCE love you, I blame him John. And I'm glad.
Healthy are leaves that make no sound when you march on them. Dead enough to be plucked off a tree without so much of a tug. That I suppose is true enough. Alive enough to still be green and perfect for your new friend. It smears like paste if you drag it over the old school sidewalk. But was it dead when you pulled it off the bush? In that instance of separation from its branch? What about when it started to tear at the stem? Did you kill the leaf then? Wasn't it headed that way with the downward pull of autumn?
I walked by that place we lived in not so long ago. That woodbox we called home. Do you remember it? It was quiet and the doors were closed. The windows were all locked boarded up and broken too. I had locked those windows once, closed those doors. Herman crawled out through the window sill, past the boards and broken glass.
There is a clock that ticks down towards your end. You wind it when you take a breath, when you drink, when you eat your father's lasagna, when you lie down at night and when you dream. But it's all a matter of time I think, it's already started to tear.
Caterpillars pee oozy stuff when they inch along human skin. I hope it's pee anyway. It's making a big gooey line on my hand as I'm writing this. If you were here I'd wipe it on you. Herman's poop-pee smeared on you unsuspecting neck. "It's hand sany-tizer, you can't afford any germs this season," I'd say like your mom. You'd probably wipe it off and keep walking, one foot after the other. If you cared to wipe.
I don't feel bad that Thomas died. I need you to know that. He was my least favorite person when he was alive and now that he's dead he is my second, and I'm including Hitler. I'm including Adolph fucking Hitler. The man responsible for my Bubbe being starved and stripped and murdered inside of a gas chamber. Your brother was cold cow shit mixed with rust and although I admit I did ONCE love you, I blame him John. And I'm glad.
Healthy are leaves that make no sound when you march on them. Dead enough to be plucked off a tree without so much of a tug. That I suppose is true enough. Alive enough to still be green and perfect for your new friend. It smears like paste if you drag it over the old school sidewalk. But was it dead when you pulled it off the bush? In that instance of separation from its branch? What about when it started to tear at the stem? Did you kill the leaf then? Wasn't it headed that way with the downward pull of autumn?
I walked by that place we lived in not so long ago. That woodbox we called home. Do you remember it? It was quiet and the doors were closed. The windows were all locked boarded up and broken too. I had locked those windows once, closed those doors. Herman crawled out through the window sill, past the boards and broken glass.
There is a clock that ticks down towards your end. You wind it when you take a breath, when you drink, when you eat your father's lasagna, when you lie down at night and when you dream. But it's all a matter of time I think, it's already started to tear.
