letters from woodrow

[mindbum]

top pop-

i have arriverd at my windswept isle destination. mud & grass can be used to fill the gaps between the planks of my own personal shack, when mud can be found. the previous occupant fell off a boat on his way back to the island after a rare holiday.

the roof of the shack is tin & flaps in the wind. i have climbed the ladder a dozen times to nail the corners of the tin down again in only a handful of days.

the process of acclimation has been difficult. ah but the job. officially, i am an observer. but, i could not long resist slaughtering large numbers of little blue penguins wantonly. the carnage is endless. all is bloody. i use a club, mostly. times come i throttle the penguins with my bare hands. it is satisfying to watch the light of their life dim to darkness in their eyes. the skins produce a favorable hide of a blue hue. the carcasses posses a luscious meat.

your in open-handed savagery,
woodrow


most gracious pappy--

the penguins emit a precious high pitch honking, a flightless cacaphony of flapping. they are not afraid of man. each day is gladly the same as the prior. bird murder, skinning, salting, cooking, eating, shitting. rinse and repeat.

the slaughter is endless. an open ended contract of elimination. an economic boom on this forlorn rock until the birds migrate, return to the sea.

here all facets of life are focused on the birds. there is a large pile of bones outside the shack. many pairs of little blue webbed feet bound with scurvy grass hangin from the rafters of the shack.

yours under swaying legs,
woody



pop-

next time i write you i’ll live somewhere new. i sent myself a postcard. it will get there before i do. i hope i sent it to the right place. i’ve had enough of the penguins. all i wear is blue. i prefer the white meat. but stew makes things grey. the stones and soles offer little sustenance. the cacti must be peeled. they wither in the broth with tangled roots and tiny overlooked feathers.

yours in birdskin with stringy wings,
woodrow