Amor fati: Letter to an Unknown Friend

I am allergic to my lovely fate—

Which is to say, its trouble and strife.

In neither case are they to blame;

I can well alleviate the pain

And flinching live, once more, this life,

For I'm a nonesuch, doing "great,"

Who gets from work a bit of gain,

But wants inputs—perhaps a wife?

I write, as I always said I would.

We met sometime, but who knows when?

It must have happened, somehow good,

Though truth to tell, your face grows dim.

We never spoke—although we should

Have done so, dear, were now but then.

Wednesday, May 27, 2026

Idyll

“Was I a man or a jerk?”— Saul Bellow on his deathbed

Thrust into the game, the smart bones ache. If

Unbodied souls may choose, I chose this??

Common sense accepts fate's birthday cake.

Life flung me forward—it was hit or miss.

Now I have practiced for these many years,

And from my investment reaped a pretty penny.

Let’s not impose on usury dumb fears!

What's the alternative? (There isn’t any!)

Life’s great fabric churns out shit and change.

Our stunning GDP is coined in suffering.

But in the interstices, one can cleverly arrange

To squeeze a mite of profit from the thing.

Note: The English word “idyll” derives from Greek eidyllion (cf. idein “to see”) and rhymes with “diddle.” Kindly pronounce it ˈi-(ˌ)dil.

Wednesday, May 20, 2026.

In Deux-Sèvres

In a field of sunflowers in Deux-Sèvres

Around the end of the last century

The cabin of a defunct Caravelle stood,

Perhaps one we had flown in thirty years

Before, converted now into a rural pub

Or nightclub, not far from where we were

At Bois-Râteau. The great world had shrunk

From which we travelled so carelessly

By Caravelle or Comet between cities,

Unbothered, then, by jacks-in-office

Pawing through one’s stuff,

Flaunted the slimed sigil of "security,"

As in this pissant day. “The French Revolution

Is still going on,” Jean-Claude said.

“I love all sorts of booze!’’ We spoke of Saint-Just. He lit a bonfire in the yard.

“Ça bouffe tout!” Ursula said, pouring Clorox

Down the clogged drain: “This eats everything!”

After the rain, people went hunting snails

Along the country roads, and we went, too.

May 16, 2026