for john and bobby in our dark hours

this letter is written in churchill ink (sweat, blood, toil, tears of hundreds of thousands) and i guess i wanted you to know we miss you. every waking moment and then some. we miss your thick boston accents, assured voices, calm as ocean morning and drfiting us, safe as liferafts but knowing you are on the way.

jesus boys, where did we go wrong? we've got the balls but nothing left to hope for and i'm thinking how, oh how you pormised us heaven in our lifetimes, how it never came to pass and it's so damn easy to think of you at every crossroad, every decision i make and i know, i know you'd have made it right and just -how fucking just- you left us a world of ashes and flakes of skin you promised us saviors and gallantry. shit boys, we fucked it all up and i guess i need to know that somewhere, the hope and love (yes, faith too) that made you miracles of men is still alive and breathing, just waiting for right train to catch to town to save us from ourselves. you left us pictures, worldwind and nothing to hold onto can you hear me where you are? can you hear the tears on the page, damnit boys we need men and women with your looks in their eyes, starry eyes from freedom, everything we ever needed at their fingertips and i know, hell, i know you tried it was coming through in waves and droves. god boys, can you lend a hand now?

it's so sad to have to ask, pathetic to the tune of billions but how many children are coming up in this coming through in this---i know what you'd say: everything will be just fine, it's believing makes the difference---hell and hogwash boys, i'd take one of you to every ten thousand of their bony fingered button-pushers (how you made it all okay) and i guess, more than anything else, i wanted you to know i miss you.

thanks for listening,

rbrt

2003-10-09 | 6:13 p.m.
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