Dear Wigleaf,
We miss you like a
jackpot, even your flat-breast jokes, dry as a lecture on Drosophila
genetics without touching upon neomorph mutations. You were always a
leopard in drag. The old East Village gang sends you its motley love:
Rin-Rin, Tora, Lindy Heat, Eddie Coops, the bass player from Your Uncle
Is Trash, Joey Rino, the Mott Street Mock Ups, Serge Gillespie, Sacred
Dew, Foul or Fang, Brent Lintner, the ex-clown you dated who did some
weird shit on drums, etc. Speaking for myself, I can say that without
your South Street humor, the way you’d take risks, in black
leather and Goth or that Tee shirt that read: Band of Fuck-Ups, some
Holly Go Lightly thrown in after a botched break-in to free some crusty
punks from anti-squatters, or the time you smuggled clams from the
sushi place on St. Marks just so we could slime-love ourselves all over
again, or how we’d get drunk and stick our heads in the
washing machines and scream Primal or like the Rolling Stones once sang
when they were still Rolling and possibly stoned—We Love You.
Without you, I'm as lonely as a funnel-web spider that
hasn’t been notified of its classification. Thinking about
you... well. . . it gives me crabs. And I still don't give a
fuck about your retarded ex-boyfriend who lives in fatigues and who got
booted out of Banana Republic for trying to steal some antlers.
I'd rather stalk you.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Kyle Hemmings
