Dear Refugees: Come to my Home, Beat the Dog, Tear the Curtains

This week we read letters from Sam Rocha‘s monthly mailbag.

1st Reading: As the visions during the night continued, I saw one like a Son of man coming . . . (Daniel 7:13)

The bag sits just outside the news cycle hot-wash drycleaners, right around the corner from his favorite place to order wings fried hard as mierda like The Fugees do in The Score.

Dear refugees,

Come to my home, beat the dog, tear the curtains, let the water run, shoot the can, make me poor again, like you, and miserable, too.

Yours truly,

A secret admirer

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Dear middle easterner,

Blow down my door, save me from safety, redeem this shiny rubble, grind down our clean street, surprise someone.

Your Sovereign,

Keeping the X in X mass

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Dearest ones,

I’m sitting in Hippo, writing my Confessions, North Africa will soon burn, my memory will go elsewhere, I am at peace, in love.

Your father and doctor,

Augustine

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Dear Sam,

My neighbor tells me nothing, I don’t even know who he or she or it is. We’ve never met nor spoken to each other. Should I be more careful with my language?

A reader from Montaña

 

Dear reader,

I would watch out for sure.

Sam