postal delay


months after the news, i discover your letter
in an electronic journal, found in a fraction of 
the universe's eyeblink - too late.

the letter that never arrived says:

"Lafitte,

Five years. All sense's gone. Eventide is upon me. Zeus has shown no mercy.

And though the gods are often satirized, I still find strength to believe. 
This may be bad, however, as I believe I will again find your lips. 

Incredible that I now write you considering that I had to go on an Olympian quest
to find out your location.  Doubtless my intentions in writing might seem equivocal 
to you, but I assure you that most of my problems are rooted at my birth. 

There is no doubt that I will probably never reach Heaven seeing as I tend to use 
my writing as a weapon against capital society. It has even gotten to the point 
where I use literature as a substitute for orgasm and have even stopped taking 
my barbituates against doctor's orders. 

I am writing in this little shack with hardly any light, my boat is beginning to freeze 
in the water outside.  Can't help but think of the winters I have spent here almost 
every year of my life in this nearly abandoned town in which I have lived 
my entire life, whatever that means.  

This is why I got the thought to write you after all these years, seeing I am 
here and there's nobody to watch over me, to scrutinize my every move.  You 
used to do that, and I think I miss that part of you very much because it kept 
me aware of my own faults and various short comings.

It is now noon, yet the air has a chilly edge. I've never delighted in laying 
down laws as you have. Perhaps I just need to read a good book? I remember we 
both agreed to do so. I am guilty of not doing it. I don't like modernism, you 
see. It turns breathing into gasping."