Josh Mossotti

I feel kind of bad and even a little selfish. Here I am going about my work here, keeping this page tattered with my own works and ideas with utter disregard for the rest of the worlds’ collections. Shame on me … right ? I don’t know about you, but I have had enough of it. Josh this, and me that. I mean really, how self centered and ego driven can one individual be ? It makes me sick !! Sick I tell you !! Well no longer. Not today. Not on my watch.

I am going to go ahead and imply that the request to post this work was granted. That the taking of someones hard work and deep mental toil is merely for the whims of us all, or at least me, since this is ‘my’ site, is justified. To tell you the truth those finicky artists are a needy bunch anyways. They’re always stepping outside the box simply to look back in and tells the rest of us what we are missing. The gesture alone seems outright insulting if you think of it. I suppose I am doing this gentleman a favor by voicing his words for the world, or my world of subscribers which entails three accumulative visitors. Though I normally operate this site from two machines, so that kind of narrows it down. But this is not about me damn it !! Focus !!

In any case this poem written by Travis Mossotti. I read it for the first time the other day and have repeatedly rediscovered the piece with new admiration. I like to believe I think as a poet, but capturing such imagery and emotion verbally renders me mute. I have augmented my disability through music and visual art, but my lingual lacking is key component for what captivates me without description. Take this poem for what it means to you. I have brought to your attention because it means something great to me.

Dead Letter

In turmoil over the wafer of sun

(rain falling with no grace at all),

I wanted to call you and explain

how I figured out why arsonists

get so melancholy, but my phone

lay there useless as an elaborate

knocker to an empty mansion. I

bit into a ripened plum, cut open

the letter you sent with a kitchen

knife. You put so much love into

your signature; but me, gentle isn’t

the word I would use to describe

how you lifted the lid to my heart,

gave it a stir—such a perfectionist,

always another pinch of salt. Any-

way, the blackbirds opened a hole

to the attic and all night and day

an endless flapping and crashing. I

think they’re enjoying themselves;

I’m a wreck, but what else is new.

~ Travis Mossotti ~