The latest edition of the Paris Review included a white male in its poetry section. The lucky fella to break this glass ceiling is laureate Frederick Seidel. Here was his gripping entry: Deadheads in the Dark I hear men marching. Trump Trump Trump Trump It’s jailtime. I'm frightened. There's nothing to sing except a song Because it won't be long. It's all gone wrong. I'm frightened. You too? Remember standing with me in the dark After drinks at the Carlyle Outside your apartment building on Park, Holding you And holding calamity away? I remember Standing on the stage at Madison Square Garden With dear Bob Weir of the Grateful Dead Who died last week, but that night long ago Weir was singing To thousands of Deadheads in the dark holding votive candles. The Grateful Dead was an ambulance Double-parked with flashing lights Dashing into the pizza place to grab a slice. Weir was worried he'd be recognized outside and mobbed But wasn't. And what is America going to eat today at City D, The La Coupole of upper Broadway? What could be better than a seat at the counter For a City Diner regular! Mel is our manager and manger. Sitting at the counter with her lunchtime glass of white win, First chair to the left As you enter the front door, Is a living Fra Angelico named Susan Delmonico, sublime, divine, Center of the shrine. I hear men marching. Trump Trump Trump Trump. It’s jailtime. I’m frightened. There’s nothing to sing except a song Because it won’t be long. It’s all gone wrong. I’m frightened.
Wow it really makes you think
People complain about queer poc wombxyn with their post-colonial trauma narratives taking over all of literature but i'm really not seeing the evidence that str8 whyte boys have anything better to offer.