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Dear Phil, (II)

By Jeff Whitney From Issue No. 4

Dear Phil,
Now I am one of those people who orders bibles
just to have someone to talk to. Now a little scorched hill
is where I’m piling my metaphors, but once it was a country
whose citizens had no word for war. Instead, struggle
was what you called it. To get up. To go outside. To want
not to die. Nothing about this is new. I have heard
if you line up all the kings of history you can see
the end of the world in the slot machine flutter
of their eyes. The men on our money are quite terrible
now. Maybe one day we’ll be terrible
yet our progeny will bury pictures of us in capsules on the moon
in their fledgling colony. Today I read cockroaches die most commonly
in Playstations, but might also be found inside televisions, stories
behind stories. So, cowboy, do you want to be the rabbit
or the long arm jerking it into the light? Hunger, or the absence
of hunger? If I am crowned you are crowned too. I mean
drowned. The advice was precisely backward. Say anything
long enough and it sounds like sorry. Always let them see you sweat.

About Jeff Whitney More From Issue No. 4