Dearest Amir,

I sit trapped here

the,

bane of all obscenities

the righteous killer of many a vagrant,

in the company of madmen.

They sit and dance

then,

sit again,

they,

drink their folly in their tents

thinking, or moreso, imagining,

that I cannot see, nor hear them.

The, target of my reprimands

these asylum-seeking xylem heaving

phallus peeking women sneaking

bitch-feeding tit-squeaking

child feeding child beating

men-no, boys,

are, in no way equipped in the mental faculties to exhort the values of god and to slay the beast of christ! Alas, one must make do with what they maketh, but, taketh I have this candid sorrow company from the hands of the inept, seredipitized, second in command.

I had a dream yesterday.

That I could find myself a retched seat with cream to the lips and camaraderie to the belt with these

boys, that I could touch what they touch and toy with their toys and kill in such a manner that they kill, and, while rarely god gives a message when one doth listens, I desire the scripture given in the books.

You see, The words man puts to the lips slip, whereas the text man puts to the quiver rests, and god himself cannot be above that, I know.

They come to me and say things like, “Grow up” and “We’re just roleplaying bro, give it a rest”, but my values come from an esteemed place, no doubt,

my father was a great man, a merchant man - manslaughter-er of taxes, prices, and minorities, my mother a scholar mired by other and mired in knowledge, minored in mercantilism 101, the proto- economic ism of the middle east and beyond, an intelligence passed down that, most certainly, passes beyond the realm of these apes.

Oh, how they dilly dally.

How silly they act prancing and prattling with their lilys, lilac, and daffodils,

THE birds and the bees they tell me, oh, most definitely, the birds and the bees freed from the confines of normalcy, their, willy phallic phalluses free’d from pants and, dirtily sneakily snaking along the trees and grass and rives and lakes, christian stakes of warmongers and mongols, silk stockholders, brothel brothers and owners jewish stoners of witch craft and witchery to the nearest whore house I BET.

And yet,

they smile when they see me.

They pop a thumb like a mole from mole hole

and hug and cry in dearest sympathy at the horrors they,

purview,

and

much worse is that,

is that,

still,

they think they’re better me.