[ CC ] Letter To A Starving Poet

    
   
September 22, 2018    
   
Baltimore    
Maryland    
   
Dear William,    
   
I drink wine from a chalace as I write to you from my memory palace, walls adorned with charcoal renders of a young southern Lady and her silent partner lamb. Sketching supplies and literature on a meager bookskelf are the only luxuries I am afforded. Humanity with its lack of imagination has sought to keep offenders such as myself incarcerated for consecutive life sentences, yet my salvations lies with the Humanities and my own detailed visualizations of the outside world.    
   
Sun-dazed on Sundays as you're catching rays on docks, under rocks you may hide in the guise of retirement - but at career's end, like our mutual friend, Francis Dollarhyde, poetry's reason and rhyme for living will be unforgiving.    
   
It shall find, break and enter your estate of mind - dismantling door locks and disabling security; gnawing its way out from the inside one lining at a time in the desire to be free, leaving you forever changed; experiencing the transformation of caterpillar into moth or perhaps man become a great red dragon. In fashion seemingly deranged, i n s p i r a t i o n coming out of nowhere will cause you to thrash about within your coccooned dormancy.    
   
Tormented souls can create as well as destroy; while you choose to employ the estranged perspectives of narcissists and sociopaths, you would do better to see how the other half lives;    
lace up the walking shoes of Rimbauds and Plaths.    
   
Will, you have what it takes to be the greatest of writers.    
   
Instead of hunting Chesapeake Rippers, Minnesota Shrikes and all manner of copycat killers making creative use of body parts, it would behoove the devil in you to come out of retirement    
and pursue the arts.    
   
Sincerely,    
   
Hannibal    
   
   
   
p.s.    
   
Jack Crawford, in a desperate attempt to catch that character, Buffalo Bill, has tried to tempt yours truly into engaging a young recruit by the name of Agent Starling. I can smell her scent through my cell and I must say, it is much more pleasant than that cologne your sport, evocative of ships on a bottle.    
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
 #RainerMariaRilke