~i am the lighthouse. lchristopher.

i'm coming up only to drag you under. i'm coming up only to _____ you down.

~author photo by the international poet extraordinaire erj aus.

                                                     


dearest ______,  

it ain't no big thing.

yeah baby. phone rings on a saturday night gone past 3am. i'm not quite done jerking off and the smoke has yet to clear. there's a .45 shell casing on the desk next to your cigarettes and you don't ask me what it is and i'm glad of that, for once. this is you, summa cum laude, juris doctorate of law, oh baby, oh baby.

you were always the girl who didn't belong. as in, with us, our crowd. too pretty. too well off. i didn't either, for some of the first reason and absolutely none of the second. a sexual dynamo of damn near greek proportions, though you were jewish and it gave you enough sadness with your bitchiness to make you even more beautiful. all the best jewish girls are sad, beautiful, and bitchy. the men knew it, and fell dead at your feet.

i wonder about your new tattoos. i want to bring us back to the moment i threw you into the rattling security doors of Macy's on 34th Street, 21 shopping days left til Christmas, and feeling the smile on your face as my tongue met yours, the morning sun almost free, the taste of bourbon on both our lips. you said, i'll see you on Christmas cos you knew i hated to spend holidays alone. we both knew it wouldn't happen, but instead i found a job and the years began to pass.

Christmas i stayed on the Upper East Side. my birthday was four days before and i spent that morning with a carton of cigarettes and a stradivarius fiddle reproduction that i took to the roof of the 5-story walkup and squeaked notes off its steel rails, let the east river and new jersey comfort me. the owners were away and i was alone. that is, til the neighbors started throwing things.

six....years....pass. pardon my frank miller insertion, you see, but i've always wanted to say that. though i've gone longer for surprises.

you totally kited me. you checkmate. you dyed in the wool daisycutter anklegrabbing noseblower. you fuckin' genius. you drop a flat 35 on the cab and god knows how much in tip to go from manhattan to the chrissakes WESTSIDE of jersey city at 3:30 in the ay em? yr a twenty-six year old jewish female attorney from short hills with coterie of friends that was more coven than welcome wagon whenever my name got raised. what the fuck was i supposed to do re: that? i mean, we've been flirting, sure. we've flirted before, but the cards come back and your world lifts up and the friendships you've made and the reputation we both share blows the whole mess right to hell every time.

you haven't changed.
what do you mean?
the books, the writing, the way you look, everything.
hm.
everyone hates you, she said, her voice zoning.
yes.
why does everyone hate you?
christ if i know.
no, why do you think, really?
do you want the arrogant, pigheaded, i'm-full-of-myself answer or....
anything but the arrogant, pigheaded....
there isn't any other one. i only have the one.
fine, give me arrogant.
i'm smarter than they are, i'm better looking than they are, i've most likely got a bigger cock and i'll fuck their shit up if they say otherwise, which they won't because they're afraid of me.
that was arrogant.
it lost me a car once. do you know dimitry?
do i have time to hear this story? i don't think i have time to hear this story...
ok ok.
she pushes her toes into my thigh. i love the material on the clothing of rich girls. nothing is frayed, nothing is thin. all cloth is smooth. no snarls or pops in the fabric. all stitches tight.
are you really here?
rhetorically speaking, no.

we fall into one another.
after love, pillow talk sans the pillows, we've fucked them clear off of the mattress and broken the bed in the bargain.

i was thinking the pacific northwest, portland, something like that.
take me with you.
you know i could never hope to keep a woman if i had you around. you know this. my home would be a war zone.
marry me, then.
um....do you want kids?
no. 
well then, we're off to a roaring start. you're not going to be home ANYWAY.
fine.
fine.
bed soon.
ima gonna shower. working on houses.
men.
read this journal thing to me.
what journal thing... oh right! sure. i guess i can do that. maybe.
why not then? she says, propping herself on her elbow, her fantastic tits swinging free.
it's embarrassing.
what's embarrassing? 
to read about my 24 year old hand writing about your 20 year old breast while your 26 year old ears digest the words coming out of my 30 year old mouth.
oh.
you see? wha..
there's more of you.
what do you mean?
there's more of you. you're more solid.
hm. thank you?
you know what i mean. less strung out. healthier, stronger.
mmm.
are you sleeping?
(z.)
are you

when i woke up in the morning you were gone. it was eight am. i couldn't smell you on the pillows or the blankets and thought i had lost my mind. but it happened. and the jury is still out. i can't dream up a move that would take that one out and slap it for luck. and it was always so easy to write dialogue for you.

i've had a charmed life. i can't say that i haven't.


yours most sincerely,


lchristopher.


FIN. ~lchristopher. Monday, October 20th, 2025, 1:01PM, Fort George, NYC.