In which the reader is introduced to a man of humanity
Iʻll say it again: blogging is dead. Thus, my 2011 resolution to Facebook everyday. As my 2,000 closest Facebook friends can attest, Iʻve been keeping that resolution with aplomb.
This is not blogging, letʻs get that straight. This is what we call "Commentaring." As the mutiracial doctor says: "It is difficult to get the news from the Poetry Foundation Harriet Blog, yet Facebookers update their statuses miserably everyday for the lack of what is Commentaried upon there."
Iʻm told this first post should gently hook, dear reader. So as all good writers "of color" know, the best way to get attention in this here "Po-Biz" is to "drive by" (as one white-american critic recently phrased it) in a traditionally white institutional space and take down a well-endowed white poet, preferably a straight white male poet, and preferably a straight white male poet who writes "racially complex" poems.
I can see it now:
the public will swoon, will friend me on Facebook, will call me Brave. I may even get a featured spot at next year's AWP! And of course, we shall discourse like we never discoursed before.
[If you have no idea what i'm talking about, go here first]
No Change (2011 edition)
by Craig Santos Perez
for Claudia & Tony
AWP came and went like the pages of Poetry Magazine.
In the hotel the poets paid up
and in the hotel bar, the new poets hoped to get laid.
Sometimes I think that nothing really changes—
The critics award the latest crop of mummies,
and the president of the Poetry Foundation proves he’s a dummy.
But remember the poetry reading we watched this year?
Right before our eyes
straddling that dark wood podium,
some lean mean White Man from North Carolina,
male-patterned baldness and glasses on his face,
some outrageous name like Baloney Hoagie—
We were just walking past the book fair
and got sucked in by his ‘racial honesty,’
and pretty soon
we started to really listen,
putting ourselves into each hacked phrase
as the metaphors mixed and matched
like some contest between
the New Critics and the Old Quietude,
and you loved his receding hair
and his to-hell-with-people-of-color stare,
I couldn’t help wanting
someone to shut the White Man up
because he wasn’t one of my kind, my tribe,
with his pale eyes and Mark Twain award
and because the White Man was so mean
and so White
singing his similes like he was driving the White Man’s Burden
down The Melting Pot’s throat,
like he wasn’t aware of his privileged position.
There are moments when America
harasses you so close
you can smell its shit,
you can reach your hand out
and touch its dirty White ass,
and I didn’t watch all that much All in the Family
but I could feel the end of an era there
in front of all those minority poets
in their last-day-of-AWP clothes
as that White Man wore down his listeners
reading his line breaks so good
repeating the epiphany for good measure
then he stood in front of the podium
holding his book over his head like a rifle
And the poor moderator
had to climb on both volumes of Poems for the Millennium
to put the crown of thorns on his head
still managing to smile amidst Tweets and Facebook updates
even though nothing has changed
and in fact, nothing may ever change—