Dustbins and History
Poor white trash read a book or three.
Allow a present melodrama here:
such an creaturely special species
of base and superstructure,
Freud and fraud, Lacan and lanky boys
who study him religiously,
alcoholism and five dollar hookers
in the Old City, dead grad students
who couldn’t get health insurance,
dopamine depletion and bleach blonds
who listened to the Baptist street preachers,
nineteen year olds murdered in nearby apartments
over cocaine, girlfriend-chokers and Ivy Leaguers,
gay sex and Greek life: Foucault and Adderall
and rich people, abstractions and the future,
symposia and the neighbors’ ears,
personality disorders and subject positions:
you learn to recognize yourself within a larger system.
It’s almost religious. A therapeutic arrangement
of semantics and sympathies. The system of objects,
then Nietzsche. The system of subjects
and interconnectedness, LSD, and empathy.
Fernando Pessoa and suicide. Deep thinking
and black schizophrenics on the street corner
whose white hair mimics your skin,
their nervous tics your own. Professors
who talk about their upbringings you ought not
have guessed and their anti-depressants.
Black tattooed sociology majors who talk about
Marxian economic theory and the value of sociology.
Hegemony and opiates and your mother.
Fat women’s studies people who tell you about
the local prostitutes and the average suicide age
of transvestites in the South. Abnormal
psychology professors who tell you about their PCP
experiences and their gambling mothers.
The whole matrix of the species never dwindling,
ever ascending into Hegel and his anti-thesis,
the selfsame and the unapproachable other
who lives rent-free in your head
and leaves graffiti in your psyche.