kingsoftrain

Letter 082724

Dear Ethan Hawke

My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me. My children can’t stop thinking about me.

Letter 082624

Dear Ethan Hawke

I live in a body that sleep hasn’t noticed. A ghost is an angel in love with slow motion. No one touch me. I am dreaming of a poetry book written by Chelsea Peretti. I forget its second name, but its first is Lamb Hat and Crow Perfume. It is being reviewed on tiktok by someone whose mother is unable to recently die. I can’t say on brand without crying. I don’t think it’s healthy of course to dream that celebrities want to secretly write poems. But Chelsea’s poems are perfect. In a houndless south, my god gets high. Stay pretty. Goodbye.

Letter 082524

Dear Ethan Hawke

The nervous systems of angels. A funeral for a cigarette. There are two Ohios. I am still in my singsong violence when my sister throws her youngest in front of an unmoving farm machine. Sometimes a year yanks a room from death. A wasp eats the shadow of a practice wasp. My wrist thinks I’m brushing its teeth and god is the child who survived my dream. I can’t fake sleep long enough to be healed.

Letter 082424

Dear Ethan Hawke

I don’t give faith any space because the brain is god’s obstacle. I want to rewatch Wildcat. I thought my last letter would be my last letter. I mentioned my mother, but that’s the half of it. My aunt was young and I had only recently noticed. I have three dreams and drink the same in each. I read my father’s handwriting and it says longing is a paint or it says 

long 
pain. Weapons-makers don’t read poems and death reads too quickly. 

Letter 082324 last future

Dear Ethan Hawke

I remember making from plastic my children’s memories. Ghosts were as new to me as hands were to angels. Line-breaks lived in a microscope held by my father to be the holder of god’s skin. I had an animal nearby and a book about its food. A mother until there was nothing to die of.

Letter 082024

Dear Ethan Hawke

Too often, god goes back in time. Dear AI, my son always dies. A boring place for this to end.