Dublin

The scorched earth policy might apply to my mind.  Naw.  Really it's just love, ambition and chaos in my gut.  Wanting things like to be a great writer, to be wealthy beyond all comprehension, to create racial equality, to tour as a rock star (with The Gaslight Anthem opening for me).  The american dream. That kind of thing.

If I failed you, it was my fault. I don't deny it. Not with Joyce outside my modern, sliding-glass door window, looking out onto an empty glass mall, barren retail space .  To let, to let, to let you back into my heart -- the oceans come for us all -- blurred lines, watching a freshly poured pint of Guinness fall majestically to the bottom.  Swept into the misery by song.  Swept into the beautiful by melody.  I can't think enough for Sancho Panza and his dreaming dreamer.  Swept into the gilded gutter by the Irish.  Swept into sleep cause it's far past my bedtime back home.

I want to build a family crest that amplifies my emotions.  A structural invention.  An object of American ingenuity. Sonar, vibrating out in expanding, trembling circles.  I want to think of you in this pattern.  You are the distance and the closeness between the trembling circles. If love is an object of despair, let the wealthy sweep their yards with Mexican gardeners.  I hope, I hope things turn out well in the swell of the belly: Jonah and the Whale. But what if Jonah was the Whale and he grew so big that he swallowed himself and destruction of political fortune cast with golden bows freed us from ourselves and our language.  A Slovene philosopher sleeps well tonight in Dublin, knowing something I don't.

With love,
Anthony  

She Loves You

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