Poetry

Red Hair, Red Meat: More Letters to Wendy

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Letters to Wendy by Joe Wenderoth    



This is the second installment of letters written on postage-paid “Tell Us

About Your Visit” cards found in Wendy’s fast-food restaurant. They are excerpted from a

series of more than 340 letters written over the course of a year.



Read the first installment of Letters to Wendy.




October 2, 1996



To take someone’s buttocks in your hands, one cheek in each hand — is there any greater earthly event? And yet, I’ve never heard someone say so. To say so seems to threaten the very core of so-called humanity. That is, to say so undermines the abstraction — the bodiless image — with which “human” identity proposes it is moving forward toward . . . toward . . . toward what?

                          

  



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©1999

Joe Wenderoth and Nerve.com, Inc.   


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Letters to Wendy by Joe Wenderoth    







December 25, 1996 (Christmas)




In a way, I collect pussies. I stream into the dull trace and sleep them off — sleep the pussies off. Then I start the collection over. It’s easy, but it’s so painful I sometimes have to lash out at inanimate objects. The pain is least when I can find someone else who has a collection and likes to talk. We discuss the pussies we’ve stolen and how we slept them off.

  

                          

  







©1999
Joe Wenderoth and Nerve.com, Inc.   


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Letters to Wendy by Joe Wenderoth    







January 11, 1997




I love a lady’s bottom. The family objects. The family says this love will mean the end of them. What are they, that this love could mean the end of them? A lady’s bottom is as inevitable as it is lovable. Are we to conclude, then, that the universe is designed to threaten the family? Are we to believe that a lady’s bottom is, in truth, a threat? In truth, the family is a threat, and love has cowered too long.

  

                          

  







©1999
Joe Wenderoth and Nerve.com, Inc.   


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Letters to Wendy by Joe Wenderoth    







January 26, 1997




I want our first time to be special. Candles, soft music, moonlight. I want everything to be just right. I don’t want to feel rushed. I don’t want the first time to be in some cheap motel. I want it to feel like it was completely meant to be. That way, when I suck your pussy, ease four fingers up your lubricated asshole, pinch your nipples and drench you in come, it will be really beautiful.

  

                          

  







©1999
Joe Wenderoth and Nerve.com, Inc.   

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Letters to Wendy by Joe Wenderoth    







February 7, 1997




Wendy, soon I will kiss you passionately in the cunt and hold on tight to nothing. I will tongue your eyelids and your belly like they were one and the same. I will lay my dick across your belly and ask you where your mouth is. I will find your mouth. I will escort us both into a place of disintegrating requirements. And no one will come and save us.

  

                          

  







©1999
Joe Wenderoth and Nerve.com, Inc.   

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Letters to Wendy by Joe Wenderoth    







February 25, 1997




Standing there waiting for fries, me and this older man. He said to me, “You’d think they had to grow the potatoes!” I replied, a bit too loud, “Daddy fucked me!” The man seemed angry — I don’t think he understood what I meant. It’s as though we were on the same playing field, playing different games. He, however, seemed not able to understand that a different game from his own was possible.

  

                          

  







©1999
Joe Wenderoth and Nerve.com, Inc.   

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Letters to Wendy by Joe Wenderoth    







March 5, 1997




As I get older, it gets harder to keep myself from touching the other customers in line. When I’m feverish, as I am today, this is especially true. You obese aged smokers (lucky ones!), you tall lonely kids, sluggish clean women, you men standing guard all day and all night over your own flavorful stupor, how beautiful you are to the touch in my mind!

  

                          

  







©1999
Joe Wenderoth and Nerve.com, Inc.   


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Letters to Wendy by Joe Wenderoth    







April 17, 1997




At Wendy’s when someone’s pissing next to me I look over at his penis and then look down at mine and it always seems that, although a meaningful discussion between myself and this other is clearly out of the question, our penises would very much enjoy and greatly benefit from a discussion. And I’m always saddened by the strange surety of their silences.

  

                          

  







©1999
Joe Wenderoth and Nerve.com, Inc.   


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Letters to Wendy by Joe Wenderoth    







May 7, 1997




Thought, truly beheld, is just anal erotica. Thought is a giant dildo in the dark, working its way into the ass of its beloved, its complex pet. The pet cries out in delight or anxiety. The cry varies until it is speech, until it is light thrown onto penetration. Speech brings thought — a giant dildo in our mind-hole — to light. It lets the dildo know we’re still interested, or awake.

  

                          




Read the first installment of Letters to Wendy.







©1999
Joe Wenderoth and Nerve.com, Inc.   


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