Letter from...

(To be released in Real Live Book form soon.)

Letter from the Overnight Worker at Dunkin' Donuts

(To be released in Real Live Book form soon.)

Letter from a Band's Flyer

Sometimes I wish the rain would come down and wash me from this world. It is cold here, and lonely, and it's like I've been ostracized from the world. All I want is a tiny minute of someone's time. Do you know how many minutes a person has in a day? One thousand four hundred and forty of them. Even if you spend half of those minutes sleeping, that's still over seven hundred minutes you can spare for me. You know how I know this? I've thought about it. Over and over. I have nothing else to do while hanging here on a telephone pole.

I'm not even eye level on this stupid thing. I guess it's a popular intersection because a bunch of other people have their shit up here. There's an advertisement for a nail salon covering my upper right corner. Who advertises their nail salon with a flyer? That's not the only thing up here. Yoga classes, apartment furniture for sale, my cat is lost, your cat is found, this band is playing then, this band is playing soon, this band has played...

I'm in that latter category, you know. July 13th at The Little Tin Box up there on Stannard and Main. A funk rock bill of titanic proportions featuring GrooveStick, Enchiladineros, Johnny B Loud, and International Pancake Recipe. $5 cover. Doors at 9 PM. Women who wear underwear with fruit designs on them get in for free. I bet that was a good show. I hope it was a good show. I worked my ass off to get the word out. I haven't had much to do since then; some days this is more bearable than others. Today is alright. There's a stiff breeze that's blowing whorls and sheets of autumn leaves everywhere. It's absolutely beautiful, and I'm hoping that if the wind catches me in the right way it'll rip me right off here and send me flying. I'm ready, world.

I think about deep stuff sometimes, like where does a staple come from? Somewhere out there is a nondescript factory...probably called Aluminum Casting Illuminated or something vague like that. I bet the factory is downtown somewhere and there's graffiti on at least two sides of the building. There's a reception area when you come in with two old office chairs and a couple old industry magazines. A half-hearted attempt at comfort. In the back there's a huge room three stories tall with a tin roof that sounds like endless thunder when it's raining. There are probably huge machines in there that are really dangerous to operate if you don't have a solid grasp on English. And all day all they do is fill orders for staples. There is stamping and grinding and occasionally a pressure valve releases. There's probably piles of them as tall as this telephone pole and they're sorted and packed by another machine. Every day a truck comes to deliver them to hardware stores and Wal-Mart Distribution Centers all over the region. Eventually some greaser buys a tiny box and here I am. Permanently attached to this fucking random piece of wood and not allowed to do anything but stick here and absorb the abuse of nature and not get paid one iota of attention from ANYONE. EVER!

I'm sorry. Just...just give me a minute to collect myself...

I wonder if GrooveStick is even together. Or maybe it was the venue that put me up. I don't really know, all I saw was the light of day after being spat out from the printer and then darkness as a folder was clasped over me. Next thing I knew I was being yanked out and nailed to this cross. I'm like Jesus this way. No escape from my fate. Serving as an example. Dying for the sins of others. Doors open at 9 PM.

I wonder how I look. It's rained 18 times since I was put up here (I've counted) and I must be nothing but ruffled paper and blotchy dried ink. I can't believe people would neglect me like this. They wouldn't let a novel go through this kind of abuse, would they? Then again, people buy and care about what's inside novels. No one cares about what I have to say, that's for damn sure. I wish I was dead, I wish I was...

Hey, someone's looking at me. Someone is actually looking at me! Walking towards me and everything! I can't fucking believe this! Maybe they're here to ease my pain...maybe it's a shopkeeper who's tired of looking at me. He doesn't look like someone who keeps a shop...more like a student. But that's cool, maybe they live around here and have nothing better to do. Do it! Do it! Rip me down! End this pain called life!

What are you doing? You're taking something out of a folder...I can't quite see what it... NO! Oh you're not going to take me down, are you? You're just some other schlub putting up their own poster, aren't you? I can't believe I took you for any kind of savior, what with that gross hair and beaten flannel shirt. Hey, cut that out...find some other spot to put your poster on...this is mine! You can't stick your poster over me...hey...HEY!

.....

Hello? Is anyone there? I can't see anything. Other poster? Hello?

Fuckers.

Letter from the Experienced Juror

(To be released in Real Live Book form soon.)

Letter from a (Former) City Realtor

(To be released in Real Live Book form soon.)