November 15 2007
"You solipsistic bastard", she said
As if what she really wanted was a justification
For why the earth was simply circling
Her own sun, that vainglorious obsession,
A swelling black hole closet
Hoarding more than twenty pairs of shoes.
"Pardon me", I said, "But
Isn't self reflection supposed to
take place alone?" and in an instant,
vanished, leaving her awash amongst
The frothing white noise conversation
Of clanking cutlery witnesses.
Their tragic sitcom lives had never
Known war or famine, their pestilence
Was merely a thin needle, a powder blemish,
Marking tribal territory, believing themselves
Nothing less than the graceful and good looking
Progeny of a popular revolution (and a liberal education).
Clawing awkwardly in the misery,
Of the epoch at the end of history,
The malaproptic Victorian world of their childhood
Might have made sense if they had stopped to
Consider the barren emptiness of the theatre
They had constructed by hastily slapping boards
Across an abyss of pseudo-intellectual agony.
Front row seats were reserved for important people
Like Derrida, Foucault, and Barthes
But only Spivak showed up, uninvited,
So they all went home
To watch television instead.
In the negative space between ad breaks,
They attempted culture, wore tight jeans,
And fucked, ate (only a little), and fucked some more.
Occasionally bubble-resembling words
Wafted skywards from their slicked lips,
While thin fingers snatched at stylized purses
Looking for shiny buttons to pinch.
They didn't even notice when I vanished
In the middle of the crowded cafe
Leaving only a half-eaten salmon striped bagel.
And she didn't notice either.
This Note
Asides