New Orleans, June 3, 2005

Dear S.

Blue glowing squares at 3am. Wet streets sure to turn up French-braided come Sunday dawn. And the fish, so energetic!

My one friend/neighbor arrested. MJ sales and possession. Between the last gardening job and this one Christian, God has let there be too much light.

Love,

M.

New Orleans, June 18, 2005

Dear S.

That sounds exactly right: church made out of what looks like nothing when sober. Can understand the hallucinogenic, the sequencing of everything—talented dancers, packed S&M.

That part that would have been self-consciousness was damaged. Watch and see how men think. Close to home something bigger was coming. No excuse for the tension of the possible storm.

I miss you.

Love,

M.

New Orleans, July 6, 2005

Dear S.

A different regret every night—and afterwards. Just the time getting past. I listen to the men and she talks. Together, we are a whole person. Alone, I am a cold, flat. I can see why they mind.

Surreptitious faking. Muddy because everyone uses. So many possible loves flickering. Each one wants to weave his own pattern into the rug.

But how can I practice this Southern Belle thing without you?

Love,

M.

New Orleans, July 28, 2005

Dear S.

Remember when you said you’d bury canned food for me so I wouldn’t be afraid of starving?

The only neighbor who speaks to me is drunk with teeth. I have somebody’s wife or uncle. But he’s gone now. Jailed. Friends still selling something worse. An even better ride if you want to go far.

Love,

M.

New Orleans, September 8, 2005

Dear S.

Haven’t managed to get a package off to my heroin addict. Then again he too must experience the strange sense of time.

Sleeping upside down on an armchair for months. The geography I am learning. Should I drive out and get you? I think I may be leaving things out.

Love,

M.