How’s the weather in Santa Clara?
Scorching sizzling sun or soft sparkling spring rain from the foggy blue mountain tops surrounding the industrious Valley with its silicon computer chips and silicon bombshell chicks strolling down the campus marble highway passing by the shining white church and the seas of roses in that flowering garden of Eden with the humming bees and the squirrels running up and down the sky high palm trees chasing their own tail, the fairy tale about the fair maidens running up and down the campus marble highway, the ladies that I never touched—the life that I never lived—In the Garden at Gethsemane, he prayed for the life he’d never live/He beseeched his heavenly father to remove/The cup of death from his lips—so how’s ol’ Santa Clara doing in the soft sparkling spring rain or in the scorching sizzling sun? Is she alive and well, tossing coins in the wishing well on Franklin Square, counting coins and days until they release this con from his five year sentence which no literary sentence can undo—yeah, does she miss me, my self-made maiden of the Valley, like I miss her? And are th’industrious bees still making love to the sea of roses in that blooming garden of Eden? Tell them I’m flying overseas to join them when I’ve completed my sentence and my sentences; tell Clara I’ll be home for her birthday; and tell the marble ladies and the shining white savior by the church that I’m coming home for Christmas. Tell them that I rose to the occasion and found a foggy blue highway to The Promised Land, and tell the scorching hot Christina Rose that her line about bearing the weight of light and its shadow is the most sparkling sentence I’ve ever read.