If only I had enough
money to lose it all
in a recession, followed
by a pining depression
of my white postindustrial soul.
I want to name my cargo van
& travel for the sake of traveling.
Let me shake my pasty ass on camera,
I won an Oscar. So fun.
Post-pandemic America will be full
of broken-down motorhomes & white vans
that some nomadic white kid named for TikTok.
How do my dreams tell me that I am lost in the veins of society?
I hit a golf ball with my brother
after I spend hours watching his kids,
because their Bible school can’t go a full day,
& he works so hard to buy them black shoes
because I can see white socks in the toes.
Can you give me a free pass? I’m not living the white life.
The gradual release of responsibility is a theory
that some equity professor enacted in teaching pedagogy,
some professor, who ignored the communal teachings
of my ancestors, & wants me to tell my brown students
to pull themselves up by their bootstraps.
What is a bootstrap?
We wear Nikes or Adidas, puto,
go read some Paulo Freire.
And how can I tell them to stop working, to stop
driving forklifts, or cutting red sinews of flesh
from hanging cows on conveyor belts?
I have no release from my responsibilities.
I can’t build a cabin in the woods & jerk off,
I got shit to do.
In the last days, men will be lovers of themselves.
What’s so bad about that? I love myself,
but I can’t help but think that “Whitman”
sounds so much like “Whiteman”,
& that to love oneself, you lose the souls
of those you are responsible for.
And yes, I ended a clause with a preposition.
I guess that’s just making
all the fucking difference, the body is electric,
but some of us don’t have to sing