free letter from ago

i just found this gem waiting in my computer. i wrote it on 6.24.03. i guess it was some sort of letter. i like it. some of it i don't, but wow, what was i on back then? :)

I think my mind is dripping, sickening me. It is June and warm outside but the dark air keeps swirling out bits of white that I double-take at: SNOW?! and beyond this city, you’re out there smiling right now I’m sure. people sometimes move like taxis, like racoons along sidewalks, I spy them from my car slipping out of sight, cottonwood fluff.
The way the dreary angels form tonight’s sky might be the pattern of arrangement I’m organizing you into. down the kernels, and then corridors, my language is diseasing me, disrupting my other breath. this pattern is unsettable, unstable, I can’t seem to stack you no matter what city you’re in, though I miss you. sharks are not clingy or unpalatable. dipped in butter and cooled on paper towels, I can’t fry you any longer, I can’t fry me-patrol my shores: borders.
I can’t remember one absolute number. I can play anything using the infinite scale. I knew your doorstep like Jamaica. I could walk in whenever, often you were there, sometimes not. I’ve heard that things end beyond letters: writing them, making up alphabets with them. alpha-bets alpha-bets. I’m never gonna see you again. I’ve quit seeing solely beyond my own illusions. I’m slipping away, my tide is out out out.
I found some pictures today of the mountain I used to work on wishing for love. I’ve loved twice since then. I want to knock on your door again for the first time and do it again and again because back then I was writing. My phone rings all the time now with your voice and I’ve learned tons about astrology and friendship. I capitalize my I’s now. i hate it.
I had a dream of a ghost. I keep seeing the little black boy from my dream. everyone’s faces look like him. but I never saw his face, he was walking away from me. I want to talk about it, like how we talked immediately about your dream of the love poem from me tacked on the wall in some hallway with your name written on it in red. If I say “long sentence”. what do you think first. This is just a gauge of health.
Some graves can be slept in all night like the tower of technology that I plow down in my mind with every keystroke. All I have to do is throw out my wrist and steal quotes off urinal walls. Call me again. I’ll try to write you some more prose littered-trashed with pronouns. try to believe.
Love, me.