wheelhouse archive

Issue 6, Spring/Summer 2008

Letter #15
by Alex Stolis

8358 Sunset Boulevard
West Hollywood, California 90069

June 2, 19__

Dear J_______,

There's a hole in the sky where memories sneak through, it looks blue
like the clouds on the outskirts of the city but in fact it's red—
the red of your hair as the sun sets behind Golgotha.
I wanted to be Eddie Felson—hat cocked to one side, a loaded gun
in my hip pocket. I wanted to stop time, study the earth
as it spins—pretend I could see an angel kneel on the head of a pin.

You wanted to be a dancer, move to New York, forget the criminals
with hands in their coat pockets who brag about unpunished deeds.
You told me to forget about deals for this and paybacks for that—
forget the bang bang of garbage cans that rattle down side streets
at midnight. You wanted to go back to the open field outside of town,
lay in the tall grass and pray for redemption.

Reality looked gaunt when the sun came up, we watched a hangover
in the apartment next door slide down the fire escape—waited
for another miracle. I told you I had seen one before and this time
I'd pay in blood if I had to—the real thing too, no bullshit
pussy version of stigmata. You laughed, said you didn't believe
in myths or men who could disappear into thin veils of light.