A Letter to Emily Gould

What a briny prickle you’ve created of yourself!
It’s a sorry tale I’ve read from you, your life upon a shelf
Of public scrutiny. Where will you go from here?

Might you remember Rostov’s charging the French Army,
His sudden realization that I mean no harm,
My friends love me;
My family would be sorely grieved
I am a really nice person;
So why are they shooting blazing guns at me?
My God I’m like to die!
Retreat! Retreat!
And yet they called him a hero, fool that he was,
And he was never quite the same,
A wiser man, and somewhat more sedate.

It’s time to quit Emily.
Quit being Emily.
Perhaps you think I’ve not been you
And should say nothing.
Yes, I should say nothing.
I’ve said nothing to you
Because you don’t exist, Emily,
You’ve lost it.
You wanted fearless adventure,
Free love and
Faceless friendship;
Virtual reality and no real virtue.
They’re oxymora, Emily.
Like you they don’t exist.

Go away now,
Retreat to no place
Where no one sees
And no one cares.
It’s a nice place actually,
Restful to a point,
Healing.
Give it up Emily.
Quit trying,
Quit trying not to try,
Quit quitting.
hush

Now just breathe
for a while.
breathe.

Notice if you will
The emptiness within
A chest of emptiness.
A space, a place
Where nothing is
Within your chest
Beneath, behind
Unnoticed breasts
Close by an anxious heart,
That fills with nothing
More than life
And just as quickly
Empties of itself.
It’s yours, it’s you,
That space where nothing is.
Do not notice now
The fullness of all living things,
Their panting, gasping, respirating
Breath;
The flow of waters over gills
The leaves of porous trees
The crawling worms
And creeping bugs
And microscopic things
Within this microscopic sphere
Of life on earth.
Do not notice your
Communion with silent earthlings
In an envelope of air.
but hush
you don’t exist
you are not here.
When you arrive
You’re welcome.