Another Letter to Rod:

Rod,

I have unhealthy impulses. Just a few seconds ago, I was inclined to light my stomach hair on fire. The prospect of doing this corporal arson reminded me somehow of Yosemite Sam and how he used to carry the cracked barrel of gunpowder on his shoulder and how the gunpowder would stream out and leave a trail of it directly to his hiding place. Then he would blow up, but in a funny way. Like his mustache would turn all crispy and fall off. This makes me wonder, do I, in some secret and unconscious way, want to destroy my penis? Light up that trail of tummy tufts and let it go. Just let it go and explode and be done with it. So no more future dudes could swim in me. So I could save them from this world, this realm, this heartbreak and bad traffic. Would that be the selfless move? Or the selfish move? Because right now they’re me. When is it that they are they?

Thinking of Yosemite Sam also reminds me: I wish people would curse more creatively, more torrentially, and with more spittle. I’m sure you can relate.

That said, let me tell you a thing or two about wishes. 1.) Wishes are like giant cactuses: most of them are green and dogs don’t often piss on ‘em. 2.) If I were a birthday cake, I would say if you stick one more wax log in my ass, I’m going to grind with that raw chicken over there and make every one of you fuckers puke. Let me tell you something else Rod: I long for the day when you and Jimmy and I can sit together on a set of bleachers with some beer and flick sweat at each other in the uncomfortable heat. I wish for it. The splintery wood. My wet back. Your beautiful legs. Incessant nonsense. Incessant levity. A cloud or two.

Now I could unravel this ball of yarn some more, you know. I could let it out till it reaches the bottom of the stairs. But I think I’ll cut it off here. A jerk of the wrist and it’s done. It’s broke. My hand is hot for just a moment where the friction happened, and I think about that. How breaking it burned me a little, but not as much as if I were trying to hold back a horse with it. Or a swordfish. How fast it would move and how hard I would hold on. It would burn through my foreskin, Rod. It would burn right through. I look at the frayed ends and it reminds me how the barber always powdered my neck when he was done, and how you used to dust the assprints off the counter at the coffee shop before Matt came in. So carefully. So carefully. My hands burn just enough.

Till it all need replacing,

Dave