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‘(Poem For) David Foster Wallace’

October 8, 2008

-(from the upcoming collection, poke the scorpion with a sharp stick)-

(Poem For)

David Foster Wallace

A great majority of my giants

never find the front page when they die.

David was a professor at an Illinois University.

Then he decided to write fiction

of a calibur

so intrinsically funny

& naturally intelligent

that I often needed a dictionary

next to my bedside.

Wallace was very well off.

His books would never be

national sensations

but his readers were rabid

in their praise

& often bought every book he wrote.

Mr. Wallace had very serious mental issues

in his youth

that I thought he overcame.

Apparently he didn’t.

When he signed a book

for me several years ago

he crossed his name out

on the title page

& signed by spelling his initials (DFW).

The big magazines loved him

& published him as often as they could.

They should have.

He was that good.in a nation of predominantly

stupid

scared

& sullen lemmings

who seldom read a book

start to finish

his contribution to letters

raised the bar

back up

from the level of

pulp horror garbage

& serial romance novels that

frustrated housewives read in bed with a purple vibrator.

A man who plays a cynical,

wise-cracking doofus on the

American version of a popular British sitcom

is in the process of directing a film adaptation

based on one of his collections.

David

killed himself

several weeks ago.

(i just remembered while i was brushing my teeth this morning).

Tired of toeing the line

against a wall of

numb,

television-addicted stupidity.

One of the best soldiers

we had

has fallen in battle.

He will be missed.

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