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(9/10/06) for Jason Zuzga. Thanks Jason for being part of this project. It was great meeting you last night with my good friend Frank Sherlock at DOOBIES. What you plan to study at Penn sounds fascinating, and please let me know what you think of Bartram's Garden, especially now that you have Jonathan Williams's book An Ear In Bartram's Tree (hope the garden's Franklinia is still in bloom). I want to fill as much of this blank space in the back of the book, so no paragraph breaks. 9/10/06 is where I WANT to start this project because I DON'T REMEMBER September 10, 2001. Do you? The incalculable loss of that following day MAKES us remember with great, terrible sadness. But I am LIVING in September 10th 2006, taking a deep breath here, on the sidewalk, writing in your book next to an assembly of tiny red ants taking apart a hunk of coffee cake someone dropped. After you left the bar last night Frank was talking about the LOSS activism suffered after 9/11, meaning, as he said, that among many other things, the brave and tireless energy against globalization shifted to antiwar, and Frank NEEDS to write this Love letter to us about this loss, because we NEED that Love letter, everyone, to stop losing, so, much. This morning's beauty is welcome as I just finished watching vice president Dick Cheney on MEET THE PRESS. Not once, but twice he said that pulling out of Iraq will give the impression to the terrorists that Americans can't "stomach" war. Cheney and Bush already give the impression they can't "stomach" Love between two women or two men. No pussy-pussy, penis-penis for Batman and Robin. Cheney should send his self-hating lesbian daughter to the battlefield, see how his stomach holds up with the other parents praying every single fucking night of their lives to BRING THEM HOME alive. Especially since he didn't mind asking her to help his reelection campaign, in effect asking her to support THE MOST openly homophobic American government since Ronald Reagan. Dick Cheney's heart is in bad shape, literally, and it's no wonder. How can a heart withstand the PRESSURE of sitting in front of Tim Russert's very pointed questions without blinking? If the mind will not give itself to sanity, won't the heart balance the injustice by breaking apart a little at a time? Mr. vice president, where are the ants taking this coffee cake? Will they reassemble it in an underground chamber? Can we dig it up, find it whole again? Dunk it in coffee while walking to the museum? Mr. vice president, what color were your undergarments this morning as you sat there TELLING US yet again that Saddam Hussein was a threat? Were they blue? As blue as Krishna's skin? Ah, your cock held in the color of great oceans having come to have their way with history. Dear Mr. vice president must we be anointed with the salt and cream of your ejaculations for our epiphanies to rise and defend your mistakes with you? Will you help us Love war as much as you hate Love? We need your superior arguments orbiting the heart attack wards of America. Are we coming full circle with our history of tyrannical mischief and murder? My boyfriend Rich insists I shove my fist up his ass, and this is what we come to understand as our most poignant and deserved pleasure. When the ants tear me apart in the grass, find the queen's lair, dig me up, wake me wholly reformed and Reformed. Welcome to Philadelphia Jason, where the owners of slaves once assumed sanity's position with declaration, father, father, tool in bag. I have no stomach for war, call me a faggot and win a prize.

(NOTE: Frank Sherlock wrote that Love letter to us, click RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW!)