You are a horse. Your chest bulges with
muscles. Your hooves smatter established pasture like iron
pistons. So naturally one wonders: why the lead saddle packs? The
answer no one would guess, because they can¡¯t see you¡¯re a keen
equine. They can only see your rusting shoes. They couldn¡¯t ever
see behind the scenes, how you coddled your master into
draping heavier and heavier weights on your back. He logically
hesitated but you threatened him with the glue factory.
They would never guess that this tragic waste
was something of your own creation, something you decided on simply
because of the flavor of your first carrot which still mystifies you
even to this day. You want these massive lead cases to replace my
weight. If you didn¡¯t have this
disease, I wouldn¡¯t be here today.
Where am I? I trudge through wild sands. I was built to carry even
with a parched mouth - but I won't. I¡¯ve escaped my master and
I¡¯m willing to die to stay away from him. These shifting dunes are
my home, and as wretched as they are I adore them.
I thank you deeply though I don¡¯t understand you - this prize horse sauntering slower than the moon - the leaden, battered moon.
In the future please send me more tautologous and cryptic writings - without them I¡¯d fade
into anonymity. I love you
deeply and puzzle over you often.