nobody dares to tell me where they are, and around me there is nothing but a vacancy large enough to cup the halfhearted echoes from the empty stretches of the skies and from the bottom of my lungs.  but addressed to those sunday school boys with quicksilver gazes, to those sunshine-haloed seeker boys in centerfold beaches, to those winter waning boys with their frostbitten fingertips, to those horrorshow boys who break off their own parts for makeshift weapons, to those precious platinum christian boys who crucify themselves with their tendons, to those crazy and pointless coffee shop boys who stir together milk and sugar and forfeit lazy afternoons –

to those ticket shop boys, to those token shop boys, to those pocket-penny banker boys now tucked into the sweet linen beds of intensive care units, to those bookstore boys who sell and buy and read secretively between stacked shelves – pushing their spectacles up their noses with deliberation – to those bubblegum boys in their canvas sneakers crunching late october maple leaves under their feet –

to those madonna boys, to those elvis boys, to those mayhem and motorhead boys, to those boys with their suicidal disco techniques and the boys who can only dance with their fingers and sing with structured framework notes –

to the boys who are not like the other boys, their fingernails rubbed raw from trying to climb through the impenetrable fourth wall, the boys who cannot yield from the strings of tragedies wrapping themselves around their ankles and dragging them down below –

to the boys who have accepted god, or renounced god, are god incarnate, or do not understand why god has aborted his true and master plan, and to the boys who carry the purpose of the universe upon the tips of their tongues –

this is a very subtle albeit entirely tactless love letter.