Love, Peter Coyote

Jim,

we’ve been through this before. Remember New Mexico and yr ‘heart attack’ or whatever it was? I gave you beads to hold and you gave me a poem, “This Man is a Doctor.” It’s true, and I’m not ready to let you go yet. Too many memories and good stories. Bringing Sam to me in Sebastapol. Shooting the .357 magnum out the window as we crossed country. Yr coyote print is tattooed on my chest over my heart, and on my right hand ring finger. We’re together in some way and I’m not ready to go, or let you go either. If you’re stubborn (you are stubborn) but if you won’t or can’t listen and you feel that the world of formlessness is more interesting, diviing into the source of all poetry, well then, alright, I can understand that. I won’t bitch, I’ll see you when you return as the rain.

Failing that, I’m editing all the poems I’ve written over the last 50 years, working with a real good poet to help me edit them. I was always too shy to show them to you, but now I want you to read them. Didn’t think I would run out of time. How silly of me. Prove me wrong, Jim. Stick around. Be a granddad awhile longer. Write some more poems. Bring back the real deal info from where you are right now and share it.

You’re so respected and loved. Bask in in just a bit longer.

Peter Coyote   (Hosho Jishi—my Buddhist priest’s name. Next time you see me, I’ll be a transmitted teacher, and we’ll be two old Zen dogs scratching fleas, and sniffing the wind for something to interest us.) Don’t miss that.

I love you.