L. Cohen-
It’s Four in the morning, end of December. I’m writing to tell you I’m better.
New York is cold. Do you like where you’re living? There’s music on Clinton St. all through the evening. Did you hear I’m building my little house in the desert? I’m living for nothing now. This is my record.
Well, when Jane came by with a lock of my hair, did she tell you I gave it to her the night when I tried to get clear? …I never got clear.
The last time I saw you, I felt so much older. My favorite blue raincoat, you ripped at the shoulder. I’d been to the station to meet every train but I came back without Lili Marlene and I offered your woman a piece of my life but when she returned she was nobody’s wife.
Well, you see me there with a rose in my teeth? One more thin gypsy thief. If Jane is asleep, don’t send my regards…
Well what can I tell you, my brother, my lover? I guess: that I miss you… and do you forgive me? I stood in your way.
If I ever come by for Jane or for you, I hope that you’re sleeping and your woman’s untrue. So don’t thank me for the trouble that I took from her eyes. Did you think it was there for good? Is that why you never tried?
Sincerely,
G.W. Rickly
