Whoever made my underpants did so with pride. He sewed his name onto the front-and-center of the waistband, an orange and blue label that is approximately the same size and shape as the orange label (which thankfully explains the best way to launder these underpants) that he sewed to the inside of the band, in the center-back spot.

And yet this abundance of labels explains why I thought of you today. Standing, as I was, helpless, in front of the urinal, no doorway to be found—no outlet for the release of that which needed to, so urgently, be released.

I was reminded of the way you sometimes confounded yourself. The way you would don the mantle of poet only to find so often no outlet no poetry forthcoming.

There are moments when we have so much to express. So much that must come out and we reach down for that familiar opening only to find a blank wall of white cotton weave, exposed seams.

And anything useful remains out of reach, hiding behind us in the ridiculous dark.

JD Frey – February 17, 2004


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