Lisa, one night Marc, Seth and I went to the below mentioned bar/restaurant to see Brad (now very bleached hair) do a one man show (a very degrading experience for him, I believe). Anyway they have great pizza and Brad’s bass patch sucked. That doesn’t account for this shitty cover band playing Senior Night and, more embarrassingly, the crowd’s enthusiastic response. Oh well. They’ll never learn & we’ll always be different, and know better. We are going out tomorrow, but if you’re reading this in the future (the mother of 20,000,003 smelly children), remember, I’ll miss the times we had and I hope you weren’t too scared when I hit that snowbank (oops). Well…we’ll be famous, right? & we’ll outbid each other for Elvis Costello’s underwear or something. Good times? Hell, no. Fuckin’ great times. love, Jude
– from my high school yearbook, squished within the borders of an ad for a place called “Poopsies.”
I wish on the moon, the star that turns out to be Venus,
anything up in the sky that’s not an airplane.
I bargain. I whisper that I will give up all my little
plans and machinations for at least the knowledge
of your whereabouts, to at least know that you’re okay.
I’ll trade my revenge fantasies, the dozen play titles for plays
I haven’t written, the entire Vanity Fair interview
I’ve created in my head. The moon can have my dedication
page, the acceptance speeches, the back jacket photo.
In exchange, I want you back. I lost my half of our mizpah
coin, and then I lost you. So I’m giving these things up
to the stars, and even the planes. It’s a fair trade.