Letters to Maria Coryaté: Part XVII. [Postcard, Memphis: June 29th, 2015]

October 24th, 2018

Maria–

 

Suns and Moons

I’ll start as your sun,

and you start as my moon.

I’ll burn so brightly

that you burn like a sun.

Then, when I fade to cinder,

you’ll reflect off me.

 

 

Hope you like this one, ‘cause it may be the most romantic poem I’ll ever write.

–Patrick

 

 

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Letters to Maria Coryaté: Part XVI. [postmark: June 4th, 2015]

October 21st, 2018

Maria;

Wow, Maria, many things are way different then the were in my head.  That’s always an exhilarating experience.  I’ve come to terms with my delusions; they don’t bother me, now.

You know, I could, three weeks ago, I swear, have felt your presence driving Southward to the North-North-West of me.  Haha.  Wild stuff, huh.

Oh well.  Expect poems on postcards again, but not till much later this month.

later, hoping,

Patrick.

 

 

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Letters to Maria Coryaté: Part XV. [email: 4:47 pm, June 1st, 2015]

October 17th, 2018

 

Returned letter, marked insufficient postage

Patrick Dominguez

to Maria Coryaté

Oh, Maria-babe, you missed such a sexy letter.  I received this unopened letter, marked insufficient postage.  Stuff like, “intense desire to smell your hair,” and “just one night more of wholeness with you.”  Burnt it.  Sorry.  Wasn’t meant to be.

 

 

 

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Letters to Maria Coryaté: Part XIV. [postmark: May 28th, 2015]

October 14th, 2018

Hey, Maria;

Well…?   Nothing?  OK, babe, but consider my invitation standing.  However— as wildly romantic as that would have been— you should probably call first, now.

Too late, now, anyway, move is done.  Finding it even dingier than I told you at first, now that I live there— but had to get out of the old, away from those people, those thems.  The subterranean aspect actually feels better than I worried.  Makes me feel like I’m in my own little cave.

Currently, I’m immersed in this horrible-though-still-improving world where I’m feeling everything I feel with immense intensity; now that I’m feeling anything, I feel everything real hard.  Worst part: when I begin to frustrate, I dwell upon everything that does, and this builds till I’m tied in a knot of frustration in my mind, and have to pull my Camry (2012, canary yellow— yeh-yeAH) to the side of the road for a minute or twelve.  Anyrate, life’s still getting better, but I can’t wait to return to my reserved demeanor, who I was when you knew me, cause I liked that self much better, and I know you liked that me, too.

Elbow feels better.  Guess my motorcycle journey of the spirit may take place, after all.  You should-a come visit me when you had the chance, babe— who knows where I’ll be tomorrow.

later,

Patrick

 

 

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Letters to Maria Coryaté: Part XIII. [postmark: May 14th, 2015]

October 10th, 2018

 

Hey.

Ugh, med change shrives hard, babe.  Not gross in a good way– especially month in: not enough of the old, anymore; not enough of the new, yet.  Bumsville, population: me.

I feel like I can’t leave me apartment; it’s uncomfortable even for a few minutes to answer the door.  Quit my job; luckily class is just papers, now— I’d go back to cutting if I didn’t have that to work on.  My primas are helping to cook for me, or I guess I’d starve.  Even inside, I get this uncontrollable, sorta, vibration, that feels like it echos up and down the god-damn building to all my neighbors.  My doc says it’s scent and gland based hypersexuality disorder— and when it’s like this it definitely is disorder, babe— know you hate that word, but I feel like I’m disturbing the public peace.  I feel like a monster.

Sweet sassy-molassey.  Just gotta remember the Institut training– make a list of goods and bads: stopped drinking completely, not cutting yet, GTA5 isn’t boring yet, this’ll be over in a month or two yet, and be back to classes and the kids with retardation in the Fall; yet I’m trapped in a steel box with a door I can’t exit, blocked out all natural light, running low on minutes, can’t see my friends, I’ve watched all the pornos on my three favorite sites everyday by eleven in the morning, I’ll have to move away from these neighbors when this is all over, and you won’t even talk to me about any of this.  ‘Bout sums it up.

flick. this.

Pat

 

 

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Letters to Maria Coryaté: Part XII. [email: 8:39 pm, May 11th, 2015]

October 7th, 2018

 

Hi

Patrick Dominguez

to Maria Coryaté

 

Hey, babe.  Did you get my last letter, yet?  I hope so.  I asked for your forgiveness.

But, once again, I haven’t heard a response from you, so I’m gonna keep on writing you, OK?

On a lighter note, hoping to cheer you up from what I assume may be the stress of school work, I found a quote you might enjoy.  It is from Hemingway, but from A Movable Feast, so it’s really, really good, late Hemingway…

“We need more true mystery in our lives, Hem,” he once said to me.  “The completely unambitious writer and the really good unpublished poem are the things we lack most at this time.”

I thought that speech was about me, but the prof. said I was AbsolUtEly

misinterpreting it, that the speaker, a guy named Evan Shipman, was criticizing the poet earlier in the chapter, whom Evan Shipman thought shouldn’t be

published.  Hmmt.  Whatever.  F him.  I like my reading better, AbsolUtEly.

later?

Patrick

 

 

 

 

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Letters to Maria Coryaté: Part XI. [postmark: May 7th, 2015]

October 4th, 2018

Hey.

I regret the tone I took with you in my last letter.  I’m sorry.  I was hurting, Maria, and I wan’t angry at you.  I’m only writing to send you a poem this month, in case this meds change takes away this brief gift.

My greatest fear is that I’m hurting you.  If I am, I’m, again, very sorry.  If you want me to stop, now, I’ll do that.

Anyrate, I showed a Professor some of the poems I’ve been writing you.  She liked them, but then was really real with me.  She said, there are hundreds of Fine Arts writing programs, each with a couple, or so, to a dozen or two, candidates for a Masters of Fine Arts in Poetry.  There are only so many teaching positions for poetry, and the audience for published poetry is extremely slim.  She recommended I go for a Masters in Education, instead.  Then, she told me about an inscription a poet named Thomas Sayers Ellis once wrote for her in his book, RACE INC.: “Whatever you do, don’t stop.” 

Anyrate, sounds like good advice to me, I’m damn good with teenagers.  And, this way, babe, these poems will only be for you.

later,

Patrick

 

 

Distraction

Deadline’s tomorrow,

still need ten pages,

yet here I am,

staring into sky,

hoping to hear your prayers.

 

 

 

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Letters to Maria Coryaté: Part X. [postmark: April 16th, 2015]

September 30th, 2018

 

Maria;

It is unconventional, when one writes someone love-letters, to tell the person one cares about that one does not care for her.

Maria, you give me nothing of yourself.  How am I to keep this up for you and  for us when I haven’t the tracest grasp of your circumstance, your condition, your life?

You know me well, babe, cause I’ve been talking to you for three years, now (at, towards).  It was wonderful for like, four months after I left the Institut; we laughed, we chatted, we shot-the-shit.  “Sure,” you said, “if we’re ever back in the same place.  You’re expealidocious.”  Then, when I couldn’t get in touch with you after I left for Miami, I panicked.  No one’s perfect, especially not us.  But I did ease up.  I have been giving you room.   

Then came my worst year since my breakdown.  Ugh, changing meds sucks.  I was like crazily hypersexual, which really doesn’t turn pretty women on.  Most my friends ditched me— can’t believe they weren’t ever my friends, but they ditched me none-the-less.  But the worst part was hearing so little from you.  My emails weren’t different, I was very careful about that.  But all I got from you were excuses.  I guess back in Montreal’s when you started up with Him.  I recognize you were trying to protect my emotions or som’it, but babe, that really sucked for me.  I was being suave and delightful and funny, and all you came back to me with was condescending sorries, and this-is-why’s.

Now I got to change my meds, again.  I’ve developed a twitch in my neck, and that’s bad.  So I’m gonna go through that hell, once more.  Don’t abandon me, babe.

Maria, I don’t love you.

But it is troublesome to me, how easily I could.

email me,

Pat

 

If I once had my Green Guitar

No body love me but my green guitar.

I no want my green guitar.

Now, my green guitar no want me.

Maybe that she be a come see me plea.

Maybe I’ll wake up.  Again?

Waking up to no her no fun.

Again, then again, then always again, (heh, clever)

if I just once could hear her say,

I green guitar.

 

 

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Letters to Maria Coryaté Part IX. [postmark: April 2nd, 2015]

September 26th, 2018

 

Hey, Maria;

How’s stuff?  (the nineties-kid reply to that nineties-kid question is, stuff’s good.  Don’t forget the apostrophe, babe, otherwise it means multiple-stuffs/good, which makes it sound like a grocery list, not your life.)  Babe, tell me about yo-self…  How’s treatment?  Did you get in to any med-schools?  Plannin’ any swanky trips to any righteous places?…

Speaking of swanky, tonight I want to prove to you how elegant you are.  So, there is this poet named Marvell, who totally wrote: “Had we but world enough and time, an hundred years should go to praise thine eyes, and on your forehead gaze.  Two hundred to adore each breast, but thirty thousand to the rest.”  Babe, consider these letters me, with both world enough and time.  Tonight’s letter will gaze upon your grace and elegance.  Babe, when I saw you at that Institut Victoria party, in that black dress for the first time, babe… I swear, I was absolutely terrified for like, three secs, to even ask you to dance.  But then you made eye-contact with me.  You would know more about this than me, about eye dilation and emotional impact, but you just vacuumed me toward you with your big, brown eyes.

Then, dancing with you happened.  Babe, you should take some dancing lessons, for serious, cause you kept stepping on my toes.  But my point is, it didn’t matter.  We laughed about it.  That is gracefulness, laughing over one’s mistakes.  And slim, black dresses.  And big, brown eyes. 

An example of a neoliberal binary: boys are supposed to have blue eyes, cause they’re supposedly more penetrating— sounds sexy, if you buy that load; but girls should definitely have brown eyes, cause they’re deeper— a personal theory of mine.  I’ve done a fair amount of research to back that one up, too.

later,

Patrick

 

A non-Normative Beauty I Know

She doesn’t care her lips red.

She doesn’t care her cheekbones high.

She doesn’t care she holds her head so tall and well bred.

She doesn’t care her nose so fine.

She doesn’t care her eyes wide

as lanterns in the lighthouse.

She doesn’t care her arms slim

as birch tree limbs in wind.

She doesn’t care her belly’s flat

as shore stretching along the sea.

She doesn’t care her legs are long as you could Ever find,

thighs rich and thick, slimming

as they progress toward her knee.

For she lives a life of the mind.

.

 

 

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Letters to Maria Coryaté: Part VIII. [postmark: March 12th, 2015]

September 23rd, 2018

 

How are you, Maria;

Hope all is well, that you are enjoying Spring, Spring classes and your big-old glasses.  Haha, nerd.  I’m crazy about that in you— and I only use crazy as something good, now.

So, I managed to sign up late for some classes: Queer Theory— so far interesting stuff.  They’re trying to save the world from binary neoliberal stigma— seems perspicacious and portentous.  Still volunteering with the mental development kids.  Cool beans.

What’s up with you?  Haven’t heard from you since you told me about your boyfirend (well, not much actually).  I can’t help but tell you this— I have an honesty problem— but I did hear about him from Lucy.  But you never mentioned him to me, not once, I checked.  Honestly— ugh, it’s such a problem, being honest— I was seeing a girl briefly, too; however, I didn’t want to tell you about her, cause, I like you more than her (hahaha, psychoanalyze that for us both, babe). 

But, yeah, it’d sure be swell to hear from you, occasionally…

Hope you enjoyed the heartache poem I wrote you.  Tried to make the vowel sounds as softly gorgeous as you.  Save that one, at least.  Does your heart ache, or break?  The difference is ache makes hearts stronger.  Mine aches, for a very long time.  And don’t expect a poem every month, either, or for them to be remotely as good.

later,

Patrick

 

 

 

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