Life and War with Mikey Fatboy Delgado
Sunday, October 14, 2018
Letter #27

Dear --------

Spring is late this year where I am, don’t tell me about where you are,
don’t tell me that the cherries are just about to flower where you are,
this letter is my letter to you not yours to me, and we have likely not
met (the name at the bottom is not mine) but, if you read on, this may
yet turn into some sort of poem where I can mention a few colours to
make it the sort of poem that arrests you; and don’t complain if you
are thinking it can’t be a poem because a poem should have drunks
in it, or folks who have spent all of themselves in the way frivolous
people spend tomorrow to get a new coat today, on the eve of Spring,
when no coat will be necessary except for those wanting to be buried
in one. Just don’t. Don’t speak until I’m finished talking about all the
ends of prayers I am having to remember - so be it – a truer line was
never spoken – so be it - that can be a motto, I’ll breathe it to myself,
I’ll get used to it. What was firm will crumble, so be it, my turn now,
so be it. The seconds since I was handed to my mother have turned into
minutes and they have turned into hours into days with light and dark,
and those two have accumulated into years, into most of a life. Once I
stilled my tongue when I would have better let it run away while it had
the chance with this person or that person. Better that it had left my head,
untangled itself from its cautionary housing, rested on your shoulder so
it might be close to your ear and say to you what it wished while it could.
I quieted it when I shouldn’t since it will be stilled soon enough. The book
I will put this letter in is anyway a book of poems (in my opinion) even if
I may not always be happy with how it has been translated. That’s not so
very important in the scheme of things. I am diverting the future, maybe,
just a little, like a boy who puts a thin leaf between a flood and a drain
and sees the water parted. In a minute I will say goodbye to my letter
to you. You will know I have kissed it, even if you are a bad man this
letter to you has been kissed. I will fold it up and put it at the back of
this other man’s book of poems and I will hand the book to a woman
who works in the shop raising money for the hospice. I can’t know
who you are or why you came upon this book or if you opened this letter.
If you did ‘hello’, I hope you are well enough to seize the day. I enjoyed
this man’s poems. I only put letters in books I have enjoyed, books
which I can hardly read for more than a few seconds at a time before
I have to put them down and stare out of the window or at another person
eating, or a child playing, or the palm of my hand, at just anything
where the staring explains nothing. In any case, I hope you are well or
at least are learning to say so be it. Don’t worry about me. I am fine, I am
wandering through the world, looking at the windows, looking at the clouds
reflected in the windows. I am at least doing my share of worrying. Tomorrow
I am taking the book about Matisse to the orphanage shop and I have placed
a letter in that book about how the colours have made me very, very content.

Yours ------


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