published July 2, 2001
written by Daniel Wolff / New York
illustrated by Vasus Das / New York

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Dear John:

      I think you’re brave

to stay, to fight. But I don’t want to save

anyone, even myself,

ever again.

      I’ve decided to go to the country. Alone.

      I know it’s not Jimmy’s fault and so on,

and I certainly don’t blame you or him,

but there’s something not good

about my eyes in the mirror. Things don’t shut off, if you understand, like they should.

      I guess I could go on living here.

But deep down, I know it can’t help.

Once you find fear,

fear stays. In the concrete, in the cracked

glass. I’ve always believed in signs,

and now mine’s

this sideways scar across my back.

      You want to know where it began?

Me, too. You don’t have to be a man

to want that. What I’ve been doing is re-reading Genesis

-- not because it makes any sense out of this,

but .... “Ye shall not eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden.”

Or what? Do you remember? Or ye shall be wise.

      Yesterday, around 11 a.m.,

I went downtown to the mall.

I don’t need to describe it to you because

these really are all

alike:

in-door fountains, all-year ferns. There was

a lady in a bright red suit handing out plastic spikes

of deodorant. For free.

No dirt, no drugs, no distraction.

And it scared me, John. The whole fucking nation

does. So, I’m gone.

                                                            FRANKIE

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