“That Whitsun, I was late getting away” —Philip Larkin
Let it show
how much I didn’t know.
I traveled from here to there
in my dirty underwear
with very little money, no real plan,
vaguely excited by, and defending,
in my mind, the old, Christian, hetero-erotic order.
Something unusual about my looks. Always felt more boy than man.
I showed up consistently for whatever job I found,
afraid—always afraid—I was letting someone down.
The look and smell of food motivated me;
appetite always warred with principle, especially in the realms of love.
Edgar Whitman was myself. My good actions were rewarded,
as far as I could tell—
but the devil finally caught me:
Getting old, a sorry, wretched hell,
(even with social security) and who I am–
scientific, atheist, fearful–seems to be increasingly
reflected by the worldly gods who write TV shows
and seek control of the future with Darwinian chips.
I’m still the last, looking back, to know what everybody knows,
whether they were scared, and like a criminal, finally ran,
or seduced with confidence, planned well, dressed well, was a happy fan.
The successful sell their talk. Only talk, at last.
How important, yet unimportant, all things in the past.
I asked questions religiously.
Mom, where does talent come from?
Getting fat or bald, losing one’s youthful looks,
but knowing a lot of stuff—it almost seems a machine
is closing in on my formerly suck-drift thoughts.
Where have I come from? What is this? My love, are you there?
Me? What does this pop pop pop-pop pop life mean?