Homage to An Eastern European Poet
The annals of my idiocy would require multiple volumes--
my symphonic flatulence, not to mention I was a fucking commie for a spell.
And that's just volume I (and half of II.) Like a moth to the flame--
if you'll permit me that cliché--I sinned against self-awareness.
Even if I'd known, I'd have done it the same way.
I encouraged leaden-footed translators
named Bob, for Nobel dreams, and all because of desire.
The same desire you have, hypocrite lecteur,
mon semblable, mon frère. Actually I won't write this
prologue to a 20-volume suicide note.
The plumbers are here, destroying my house to save it.
It's late and I'm tired. And what good would it do anyway?