Bob, I am writing this on behalf of my heart. It loves you from its scorched foundation. I personally have never been in love, but I have heard that it is a degree of optimism one often feels justified in. The cure for love is madness. The disjointed thought between a volatile mind and an unquenchable thirst, past all understanding. Now it was I who came to you. Perhaps trying to perceive a higher truth. Nothing of which could track or trample you down. My heart tumbles sight unseen.
September 6th when you came out on stage in San Diego I thought someone put a scythe to the moon, the way its light fell in tilts and angles to green up the damp grass. You looked, I feel such a need to explain, like an oddity all alone, scowling at the keyboard or the spectacle of heads and hair that came out to see you with their copper faces and loud occurences. At times must get revolting. I’d need a thousand more of you to create an honest description.
Baudelaire wrote that the dialogue is dark and clear when a heart becomes its mirror. Rimbaud wrote nothing wakes without you; neither inspiration nor love. My father, full of white-haired professorship, an estimable man with neither an axe to grind nor a heart of disquiet, once said at best the heart teeter-totters on the brink of love, at times in casual softkey it dangles, at others the weight of hope to which all life feels unbearable.
Surrounding you the sound of many winds, hands clamoring, hearts hammering, fists of air, the unflinching weather of dreams to which every catalyst is born.
My mother fell in love with an auto mechanic. To which he responded by pushing her down a flight of stairs when she was seven months pregnant. My sister fell in love with a police officer. To which he responded by entering another woman’s gate after ten years of circling with careful consideration the chambers of my sisters heart and finding them no longer useful. Each love honeymooned, folded up and discarded.
If I could have only one sound for the rest of my life, one repetitious and arabesques tinkling of joy, it would be your shiny music and bright poetry commingled. That alone would be enough to constitute a tender chance.
