Dear Heartbeat, v. 3

[From the envelope...]

Dear Heartbeat,
See enclosed for a third scrambling
of ink along
the lines of a loooooooong letter
that you requested.

To capitalize on what is to come
I sometimes have to go back-
wards; to capitalize is sometimes
to name, to term, to make more
than a descriptive adjective
or
a prescriptive feeling.

M---


Heartbeat,
It's vaguely early
in the morning, the dew, the do,
and I should, I'm
certain, be drinking.  Holiday
weekend, and all that,
whatwhat.
A little in the way
of an amusing entrendre:
bought a tone of canned food
yesterday, didn't buy a
can opener.
Ah, the life of my story.

This is another disjecta
that I wonder if you'll read,
id est, that I wonder
if I'll actually pass
along for you to read.
Here I am.  Sharing,
sharing, sharing.
I am in here.  Here,
turns out,
is more difficult to define
than it should be.
And but here, turns out,
by rote of - if not difficulty
to define then at least
the absence of presence -
defines the I that is in here.
I could noodle this for days.
It's the extend the metaphor game.
Like any good semantic-based
deconstructive existentialist
I wonder at the nature of being
more than I wander
at the nature of doing.
(Says JRRT, Not all
who wander are lost; says
the Buddha, To always seek
is not to search.)
Says the good continental
post-structuralist in me, the
dichotomatic opposite of wander
is settle.
I'll hold that thought for a moment
as I am woefully aware
of the disfavorable connotations
even the faintest hint of settling
brings:  ah, the fetid whiff of the sores
one gets on both the haunches by sitting
too long, and on the psyche by notching
down, by settling.  Hard
to tell in my woeful block script,
but settling there is in italics.

To the notion of settling as opposite,
I, in settling, mean finding, and in finding,
I imply contentment with what
has been found.  Imagine the search
that never finds.  And
then
but
so
the disconsolation that would come
from that sort of non-fulfillment.
This is in no way to say
that every search - every wandering -
has it's object in sight
upon debarkation.  The notion,
to me, is to not necessarily
know what you're seeking
but to know it when you find it.
Because
but
the purpose isn't really the find
but the sense of contentment
with the find.

I will dryly note that if what you
seek is canned food
it will be enabling to your contentment
that you have a way with which to open
the can without destroying it, that you
have the tools with which to
enjoy your find.

Am I concerned that I'm always
without a can opener?  That
my words miss the occasional
leter,
that my letters      the occasional
word(s)?  Oh, aren't I though.
The accidental flash of cleverness
only plays so far before it wears
itself out on the empathic digression.
Sound familiar?
Fits me to a missing
t.

Til anon ---

M---