these are the stories told by the fools.
MAILROOM GHOST 
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a letter...
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There is something, I feel, holy about the long table of my banquet hall. Under the finest of chandeliers lies a body of mahogany atop expertly carved legs. If I were more a man of religion, I would say this table was crafted by God himself...
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a story...
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a story...
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The eyes of milk carton kids have always stared at me...
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a poem...
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a poem...
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a poem...
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a poem...
up above us in the paintbrushed sky
where clouds + gusts of air are solid things
two stars are heavensunk in perpetuity.
gold bands and silver rings encase their heads
outstretch their limbs in cottonsoft delay
they echo through the blue in quiet unity.
their fingers do not touch, and so they touch.
touch everywhere until the two are one
touch soft skyskin + meet stareyes each nightfall.
they spin in bliss and couch in passing breezes
backs arcing to show secrets to the crescent
suspended in a love that makes the sky tall.
on earth the stars were named isolde + tristram.
their lightlimbs itching under wool and linen
their bright eyes dimmed beneath their hair + hats.
they curled in lumpy beds far from the other
and sludged through days not tinged with gold + silver
and did not dream of marriage or a lover.
but tristram + isolde were weighed like money
by mothers and by fathers who were hungry
and pennyscraped the landscape for a dowry.
so after many soirees and bad dinners
where sons + daughters were dollsmashed together
their barbie hearts were promised to each other.
a marriage ! + both houses were preparing
the weddingfeast was planned + dresses ordered
and women corseted to fit their seams.
and men tightbuttoned into shirts + doublets
and heads + faces powdered into coughing
and little boxes made to fit their dreams.
isolde + tristram did not like each other.
the angry darkhaired girl made tristram nervous
isolde thought the soft fair boy was a fop.
(she wanted to say faggot but was scolded.)
but to the moms + fathers it was nothing —
a wrinkle to be ironed into flatness
a squalling to be beaten to a stop.
Ben,
I've been going through my old journals since I've just finished my most recent one and I've found I've written a lot about you. I think the first time I wrote about you was August 25th, the day of my first class ever in college. I wrote that I was so excited for my first college class that I arrived at the classroom half an hour early. The door was shut and locked and I didn't know what to do, so I just sat on the ground next to the door with my backpack in my lap. I played on my cellphone for a bit, then when I looked up I noticed a guy staring at me from the classroom across from where I was sitting. It was a science classroom, and he was sitting up on one of those tall stools they have to reach the lab tables. He had a frowning mouth but blank eyes. I couldn't tell what he was thinking. I went back to my phone. Then the teacher arrived and we sat in awkward silence for twenty minutes until the rest of the class showed up...