A rural Job Corps Center
Dear Female Marine Wilson, you Beautiful Doll,
I love you forever and I want your alienated body.
As you can surmise, it’s a spastic day —
we’re having a regular gale — a cosmic tour-de-force —
I feel like I’m in Greenland, but I’m surrounded by middle-class,
intellectual virgins. You know — like their minds have never been
pierced or wrecked or fraught with existential woes —
they have the strongest hymens —
apathy and mediocrity.
I’m screwed up, of course, and I’m in a retaliation bag
brought on by living with a mob
but not having anyone to talk to.
I’m talked about, that’s for sure.
But I figure it’s punishment for
reading Kafka at three years old.
Shit. My assistant is an ass
— no doubt about it —
and the few people I love
are psychedelic experiences.
I should dump this project and fly out to see you
but I’m getting out of debt. When I’ve regained
my respectability, I’ll roam again.
I’m taking courses — dull of course but I must contribute
to The Great Society.
Gotta run. I have to listen to a shrink from the OEO.
So — write soon —
swim, love and carry on, Lieutenant.
My love and spastic affection,