To Whom It May Concern: P.S.

PS.
I think, maybe…but what if…this weren’t where it ends but where it begins…or ends or begins or ends or begins… What if it were a cyclical evolution—a grand spark of hope in the minds of fractured men called “great thinkers.” But this time…something enigmatic like when a glance becomes a symphony of whispers. Might as well turn it into something legendary. This sad race needs new lullabies to sing to its restless young. Why can’t you? Why can’t I…become a Lullaby?

I swear that somewhere underground is the real heart and soul of dark shadows back from the brink in new shades of gray. Maybe the importance lies in only feeling luscious. Wow, to think it could be as simple as that. But, why can’t it be? It’s just as easy to shatter (we all do it. The difference is we don’t fucking need all the king’s horses and his men. We have drugs to put us back together again.) Is there something more? Some exquisite level where a new energy becomes the indulgence of excited essences.

“How was it in the dream? You know…” In situations such as these one cannot afford a moment’s hesitation. In a night’s tale Scheherazade saved a life. In a thousand, she became a queen. I’m not exactly sure what that meant, I realize this now. But I think it has something to do with the Song of Solomon. Such an eloquent example of erotic love. In that moment, I see it now, it’s the kind of purity found when two lips meet. It tastes like a secret conversation under moonlight’s canopy, like an Italian love song and candlelit tables with checkered cloths.
That is my final answer to that timeless question. If I had the words to properly describe it, I wouldn’t be a poet, I would be a god. And sadly, some things are not for the likes of Cain’s children (we are an unfortunate lot of magnificent souls). We are not the product of history’s mistakes! We just couldn’t make our secret holy. So fuck them. Who needs their pompous god? I choose to worship in the temple of Surprising Truths.

Surprising Truth Number One: You know that place you used to go as a kid? That place where everything was perfect, there was no evil or wrong, just innocent holy moments. That place that dried your tears with the gentle brush of Gaia’s fingers. That’s the way it felt (the way it feels).

If it’s not okay, then what can it possibly be? There’s no time for the fine points of necessity and greed. There is only time for misty remembrances of things like the Rat Pack and all the rest of the good old days that somehow slipped out of our desperate grasp and plummeted into the oblivion of pop culture. I don’t want to be oblivious. I don’t want to be pop. I don’t even want to be culture. I just want to be an idea inside the memorial of the three rational questions (an ideal slightly to the left of a shifty eyed paperclip that knows too much for its own good.). If it’s not so predictable then what’s the harm? The true catastrophe rising is the realization that there are no conundrums to explore. So sing to the Tao, not in worship, but more in acknowledgement that it loves you (even if it doesn’t know you. [Like Jesus Christ’s private collection of souls he keeps hidden deep in his sock drawer.]).

I hate those eyes that glare at you tragically in black and white. Theirs is an infinite stare of passive longing. These are not the old days. The new era has begun, it always does. Why fight it? We can’t. The Flow carries us along regardless (that’s the reason we love it almost like blurry smiles in a peaceful opus). I wish I were Plato. I want to understand perfection, to know what it is to be at that pinnacle of the grandest hope of all mankind (for most of us spend our lives knowing imperfection but never understanding it. At least I can say I’ve progressed that much farther.). Embraces are warm and reminiscent of delicious summer breezes.

I wish I could see the light. So, I wrote this thing. You know, more like a prayer than
a hymn (so the shining emeralds tell me. But who ever believes them?). Sometimes I wish that life were a moonlight serenade underneath windows of lovely and elegant ladies. Sometimes I wish it could be just like (right now I’m having an 80’s flashback. Lots of red leather and bad haircuts. Have I found a window into hell?) it was that time that I looked over that cliff and my body told me exactly what it would feel like to fall. Who am I writing this to? What am I trying to say? I think you know. You know exactly who I’m writing this to. Your cleverness is truly a magnificent wonder. I think we’re safe, though. The sky still hasn’t fallen. (And fuck that little light bulb that appears above the heads of things when they are able to extract an idea from their junk food dependent and lazy brains. I really, really hate that fucking light bulb.).