A man’s poem

Stuck In A Shut-Up Sandwich

David Foster Wallace did it both ways:
a play of infinite garrulity
and the ultimate cutoff at the pass:
I’m done with this,
leaving sharp-elbowed others to claim
he speaks for all white men—
“slap my fat dick on humanity’s table
and hack it off myself.”

Sorry to be so crude
but these are crude times.
Sorry too that I do not intend to follow suit,
DFW don’t speak for me
and neither do others.
I reserve that right, elbows like razor blades.

Funny, I’ve never thought of myself as a fighting man,
just a survivor
and I’ve had to think in order to survive,
just like Jean Genet and Gloria Anzaldúa.
I know what you’re thinking too,
that I’m not really sorry
and you’re right. We the living have got
the survival part down.
It’s the let live part we need to work on.
I guess there’s a first time for everything,
but I have never hit anyone in my life.
That’s a fact.

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1 Response to A man’s poem

  1. Brendan says:

    It’s a lonely difficult path, this only one you’re on, the only one your art travails. Yes, stuck in a shut up sandwich. Persisting. Amen bro.

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