I wrote this on the back
of an envelope because it seemed fun
and the letterhead affronts me
because I don't own one. A
neat little scanned return address
with my name on it. It'd save me
some time. But no one has offered
to pay for the expense of scanning
a twelve-foot angel onto the front
of your average 9 1/2"
business envelope. So here I sit
at the business end of a stolen
typewriter and contemplate
how lucky everyone would feel
if they could see my name in
twelve-foot high letters.
My name is Laura. That's right.
And don't you forget it...I'll
have it embossed onto the doorway
of every house and when the angel of
death comes by, he'll say, "Yeah,
her, the funny lookin' one." O
that he would see my name in lights
and say, "You are entitled to the new
deal. Eleven CDs for the price of
one." And I will say, "Dear
brother, I don't want it. Violets
--don't play that game." And
then I will rise from my stolen
typewriter and run through a
parking lot in the snow, and tear
up this envelope and let the pieces
fly away into the wind. And no one
knows my name yet, because I am living
on borrowed/stolen typewriter-time.
Eleven anonymities for the price of
one. What a deal, folks. Come one,
come all. There's a twelve-foot angel
on my door. She sings hard songs
but she's a nice girl. She takes my
pain away from me. She doesn't scan well
to an envelope, though.
And my anonymity remains.
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