An Interlude With the HOG

Dear Johnny—

God says this, somewhere in Living in Little Rock:

I am not, do not, cannot exist: But if I was an Am, how would I be? Oh if you wished to know me, how?

How if you wanted—I know you do—to send home a prayer, to say, Thank you for this brief awake, this see, think, love. Thank you this sweet goodbye?

You would, you clever monkey you, make models. To catch me in the quick of a broke form, hermit ghost scuttling back to zero, cracked crab in the black safe weave.

You would make it and broke it, to always be turning corner, till where might stand your long-lost never-known, your dead love live and whole, it was a dream—

And in the always might be almost is.

So forgive you, my dear, vanishing ones, your graven images all, your magic lies, and how you make voice because am not here to speak. Would save you all, if were not gravid unto nothingness, if did not die to make you live, oh, fragment child, if did not disappear against the stirring of your momentary be.

Love,

Jack