Letter to a Fellow Poet

Has anyone told you that you look like Richard Brautigan? Without the moustache, of course. Take away the facial hair and he’s you, or you him, whichever you prefer. I have a copy of Trout Fishing In America with his photo on it. I’m looking at it now, and I see you, hairless.

            I saw you read in the Blue Kitten last week. I don’t know if you knew I was there, I’m sure you would have said hi if you did. You read two poems from your new collection which I have a copy of, but I couldn’t recall either poem. I lost my recollection for words and they fell out my head so carelessly, after you took such precision placing them there with your pen; like a surgeon reattaching nerves to a spinal column. The blankness of the bone echoed what whiteness I saw on your pages. My eyes didn’t seem to properly register the little black squiggles. No, my eyes did register them, I just can’t remember.

            I smiled at your words and they smiled back at me, grateful for a reader. But if they knew that this reader was so forgetful, their eyes would have been averted, like a young woman in the streets catching you trying to make contact. Some days I felt blind, or maybe the world was blind, or just this city. You might understand, but I’m looking at Richard and his eyes are in shadow.

            It’s my birthday next week Richard. You could write me a birthday poem. Nothing too epic: you might be Homer but I am no Odysseus. Just something to remind me of my existence, to let me know what I matter to some degree. A modicum of validation would be nice. But I would balk at it and sneer, asking what does your opinion matter. I can live without your nod. Sorry to be so ungrateful, but I’ve learnt to live without many things.

Do you care for prose, Richard? You’ve done journalism, so I suppose you might. You were good enough to show me in your television feature, but perhaps I was just there at the time and the camera had an appetite that didn’t pause to discriminate. I have been on camera before, have been given more validation and ridicule that you could muster. My image ambushes me; it is not that I am an ugly man, but the contexts I find myself in don’t compliment me as a man. Does that make sense to you Richard? You are an academic, so I hope it will.

I should leave you alone now; perhaps I shouldn’t have bothered you in the first place, but thank you for taking the time to read this. Maybe these words will remain unread, unseen, and it’s not for want of sight, Richard. Pages can easily be ignored and dismissed. Maybe I should seek you out and shout at you instead, but the world can cultivate deafness until everyone seems senseless.