Something happened on the way to the post office box—hence
the scratched out previous address, hence the erasure of original text.
That's why I am writing all this to you on the front, on top of this
photo of Warhol and Basquiat dressed as boxers before a white
background, arms across their chests, staring at the camera. I bought
the card at MOMA years ago, in a different time. One day I scribbled
the words "me" and "you" underneath the two men and posted the thing on
the fridge. I can no longer recall just who it was "you" referred to,
exactly what friend or lover I had originally intended. I don't even
know why I kept it around for so long, into such remembering.
All to say: I hadn't meant to send this card to you, still here you are.
- - -
Read TK's "Dead."
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