An open letter to Josh D’Elia /  March 11, 2011

The tsunami quenches the quiet dryness of life with a terrible water.

The shockwave of the tsunami left Japan like a mad tourist, arriving

Where the next edge of land lies passively trapped in its own mitts.

News on-a-loop runs film of the tsunami rolling over Japan this morning;

The bobbing sheet-metaled heads of automobiles, the sinking Buddha statuary;

The enlightenment temporarily out of service, and the always fleeing-from-something

Japanese people trying their best again.

Now the aftershock races eastward across the Pacific toward your apartment.

Compose a song about this adventure at another time, and I look forward to listening.

But —for now, grab the love-seat from the corner room, and put it on top of the heavy

Desk in your study.

Get on the love-seat standing on your tip-toes, maybe raising your arms above

Your head to make yourself look bigger like crawdads do in the face of threat.

I’m here to help you.

Bring your bass, unplugged from its amp,— or better, the acoustic twelve-string

Leaning in the corner near the bathroom,— also, a big container of status water,

Or if necessary, bottled water trucked-in from Arizona,— and canned-goods, and

A manual can opener, a flashlight, sixteen of my poems, and a revolver.––

And it might be wise of you to get Jenny on the love-seat, too, because

You could be up there for quite-a-while, and I hear it gets chilly beneath

The nighttime stars of Los Angeles this time of year.

Your father