By Eric, thenuttman@aol.com
Date: 21 May 2000

I Send Blank Letters To Incorrect Addresses

country fields stare at me all day
i write how i feel and how i feel is dead
eventually, the blood would flow, if it had a place to go
guess i'm not built like you...

so the words for this one came easily
in the letter i wrote to you all evening
then my tongue crosses the film, i'm licking
to seal the envelope that i'll be leaving
and i firmly place it in my palm as i stroll towards the door
jacket loosely draped across my shoulders, keeps me warm
while the wrinkles in my coat and skin, become permanently worn
move my way to my mail-box

meanwhile, held deep inside your crowded city streets
so many people in the race to live America's dream
you get up to your home,
the doorman gives you the mail and proceeds to take your coat
but you're slightly in a hurry this evening
tonight, the wounds of the work-day you'll be licking
and the prescription the doctor gave is thinly wearing
make it to the sink, swallow another caffeine/placebo pairing,
and you don't notice, when you focus...

you tossed out my days work

so just like me alone it sits inside the trash-can-keep
soon bits of dinner and paper shreds get added to the heap
it's pointless...to write you letters...though blank they still come sealed

and opening a simple sticky lock is all it takes
to find out whether what's inside is readable or fake
but you know me...
when i'm writing...
the letter's full of blanks...

because as i told you once before, words cannot say enough
so in letter form i stay true, and never write of love
because lying, just like dying...is one extended blank

and loving...
...........is one....extended blank...
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