David Foster Wallace and Thomas Disch both killed themselves in 2008. Two tremendous writers, silenced forever.
I recall writing the following poem in a state of anger and bewilderment in that troubled year. It went into a binder with a bunch of other stuff that's never seen the light of day. I was reminded of it this morning when I had a conversation with 
The memory of this poem kept nagging at me all day. Wallace always meant a great deal to me, especially because of the sincere, humane way he approached the world in his essays.
When I wrote this poem I'd only recently discovered Disch and his clever, cutting stories and poems. I'd looked forward to a lot more from him.
This evening I dug out the binder and discovered it actually has a few decent poems in it. I thought, What the hell - I'm still alive. Maybe I'll share a few of these.
Starting with this one.
FOR WALLACE AND DISCH
Why do the poets kill themselves
Amid their mounting word counts and
Their publications? Can't they keep
A score?
It is a war, with teeming
Multitudes arrayed against them:
Their broken homes, their natures far too
Sensitive, the ovens, guns, and nooses,
The loneliness, the disapproval
Of their mothers and their bankers,
The horrifying, self-destructive
Legacy of their profession.
Plus, now, no one reads.
And yet they made it this far. Every
Day's a victory and every
Line a mark against the void.
Void: zero. Poet: many
Thousand, in a battle where
Success is measured by the will
To breathe and speak and stay alive.
Success should bring some pleasure, then.
So pleasure circles round to pain,
So what? Stay on and ride it round
Again. We need your open eyes
And hands where we can see them, making
Sense of all the shit we cannot
Stomach otherwise, and digging
Deep for all the pretty bits.
And so you find more shit. So what?
So call a clod a crystal. We'll
Believe, or not - but what reprieve!
You've scored another day.
Death
Will erase long suffering as well
As short, so what's the rush?
September 24, 2008
