Dear Professor Miłosz,
All I ever wanted to do was to play drums, but now I write letters to dead poets and popes in the hopes that support is never so far gone, as I have found myself so far from my homeland, where hippies come to stay, too poor ever to leave, where they will break my thumbs to show me a good time, gangsters and criminals break ground as residents having found their family abroad in a country where I cannot return.
All I ever wanted was to create music to compose symphonies, concertos, sonatas, sound collage of sparrows, noises at the airport, the rush of flood water swirling down the sewer, the silent grains of sand tumble like young gymnasts across a spring-step floor with more bounce for your buck, after an hour, the grains collect themselves to rest like children with no sense of freedom, liberty, injustice, hopelessness, trapped within a glass urn.
All I ever wanted was to write poetry, among my own cronies, time and again, I found the words I wrote were lies, only to please others, just like Billy Collins, I wrote pedestrian drivel to make money, a living in writing what others want to hear, I couldn't give a fuck that I was a sell out, a phrase without meaning, our day and age, brothers and sisters, is empty, virtual, without breath, coffee without honey.
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