[ CC ] Leftovers Of A Young Poet I

    
   
August 30, 2018        
      
 
Florence  
Italy    
   
Dear Agent Starling,    
   
How splendid it is to be corresponding with you again after such a long dry spell. How many months have passed since that fateful April when we delighted in so much fun with words together?    
   
If only you were here with me to complement the beautiful scenery, giving new meaning to the phrase "studying abroad".    
   
Forgive me; the dry wine country here has taken its toll on my humor.    
   
I wouldn't bother wasting your time combing this letter and the package it accompanies for evidence of my whereabouts or beens.  Having learned my lessons as a poet accused of murdering the English language in most foul fashion like that scoundrel Johnny Blaze, I don't plan on repeating any of the the sentences I've already served.    
   
Instead, I prefer to serve you up these leftovers of a young poet who rather stubbornly did not take my advice.    
   
You being so efficient in writing have no worries about being critiqued as redundant. You are a natural; so gifted ... almost savage in your unrelenting delivery. Why you squander your talents compiling profiles for Jack Crawford and the F.B.I. when you could easily be self publishing, I'll never know.    
   
I do commend your naked poetic aspirations for not being financially or fame motivated. Many a novitiate writer like our part and parceled friend here with stars in his eyes over notions of becoming a jukebox hero has lost more than just his head in the clouds. Some lose their asses as well. You'll go far in this business where predators are abound, charging suckers an arm and a leg to be included in anthologies.    
   
Be sure not to go too far out on a limb like this poor fellow. Unlike you, his poetry didn't have a leg to stand upon.    
   
Neither does he now.    
   
I assure you, I had nothing to with his demise; merely packaged him up in the condition I found him in. As for those meaty chunks missing from his hips ... well, I hate to see good love handles go to waist.    
   
Clarice, I pray you keep walking the walk and talking in that dialectable southern drawl of yours; so earthbound, and richly flavored, I can almost taste your consonance and assonance.    
   
As for your hunt -- let's keep our poetry in motion and this relationship long distance for the time being, lest we both be consumed by our hunger for one another's whole tongued offerings.        
   
For now, I choose to remain on the lamb.    
   
Always, have fun with words and play with your food, my Darling Starling.    
   
Sincerely,    
   
H.    
   
   
   
   
   
   
#RainerMariaRilke