Criminal Intent
My semi-famous friends tell me
that every crazy fan letter
they get starts off by saying,
“I’m not one of those crazy fans.”
So, Mr. D’Onofrio (can I call you
Vincent?) I will be honest
and start this letter by saying,
I am one of those crazy fans.
At first, I thought it was our birthdays
that formed the cosmic thread
between us. I thought that being born
on the same day meant we were
somehow kindred spirits.
Or it explained why every time
your formulaic cop show
(no offense, I know you
take your work seriously,
but let’s be frank, it’s not original.)
comes on, I am fixated.
Captivated by your portrayal
of the sensitive, yet slightly unstable
Detective Richard Goren.
I thought somehow the connection
I felt was rooted in the fact you
and I began on the same June day.
I hoped the birthday connection
explained why I watch the show,
even though I don’t like anything
else about it except you,
because when you collapsed
from exhaustion on set
and the producers were forced
to rotate your character with others,
I couldn’t even watch for five minutes.
But when I learned that Mike Tyson
was also born on the very same day,
I discarded this theory—I did not
want to be psychically linked
to a wife beater with a tattooed face.
So, since it’s not the birthday,
I am left wondering, what is it?
I hoped you could help me
figure out why we’re attached.
Do you perhaps love miniature food?
Maybe you also you have
a non-verbal learning disorder?
Or an alcoholic father?
A control freak for a mother?
Do you think John Waite’s
Missing You is the best
pop song ever written?
I hope that together we can solve
this mystery. I am concerned
if birthdays do bond people,
deep inside, we might
also be ear biters one day
if the right ear came along.
Fire Ants
Every one of your stories starts with—
I spent four nights in jail in that city.
And it’s never your fault really.
In Ohio, you split your head open.
And then spent three nights
locked up with a fractured skull.
Your eyesight was gone for six months,
you still don’t have a sense of smell.
Now ice cream tastes like freezer burn.
You told me sometimes you smell
something you recognize as me,
even when I am not around.
Scent spirits I’ve sent out
to haunt you when you leave--
a mix of hair products and wine.
You’re on your way to New Mexico
and I’ve discovered fire ants,
while walking the dog in a Texas field.
Each one I squish on my skin
leaves a small burning speck—
a red, stinging afterthought.
