The latest edition of the Paris Review included a white male in its poetry section. The lucky fella to break this glass ceiling is laureate Frederick Seidel. Here was his gripping entry:
Deadheads in the Dark
I hear men marching. Trump Trump Trump Trump
It’s jailtime. I'm frightened.
There's nothing to sing except a song
Because it won't be long. It's all gone wrong.
I'm frightened. You too?
Remember standing with me in the dark
After drinks at the Carlyle
Outside your apartment building on Park,
Holding you
And holding calamity away?
I remember
Standing on the stage at Madison Square Garden
With dear Bob Weir of the Grateful Dead
Who died last week, but that night long ago Weir was singing
To thousands of Deadheads in the dark holding votive candles.
The Grateful Dead was an ambulance Double-parked with flashing lights
Dashing into the pizza place to grab a slice.
Weir was worried he'd be recognized outside and mobbed
But wasn't.
And what is America going to eat today at City D,
The La Coupole of upper Broadway?
What could be better than a seat at the counter
For a City Diner regular!
Mel is our manager and manger.
Sitting at the counter with her lunchtime glass of white win,
First chair to the left
As you enter the front door,
Is a living Fra Angelico named Susan Delmonico, sublime, divine, Center of the shrine.
I hear men marching. Trump Trump Trump Trump.
It’s jailtime. I’m frightened.
There’s nothing to sing except a song
Because it won’t be long. It’s all gone wrong.
I’m frightened.
Deadheads in the Dark
I hear men marching. Trump Trump Trump Trump
It’s jailtime. I'm frightened.
There's nothing to sing except a song
Because it won't be long. It's all gone wrong.
I'm frightened. You too?
Remember standing with me in the dark
After drinks at the Carlyle
Outside your apartment building on Park,
Holding you
And holding calamity away?
I remember
Standing on the stage at Madison Square Garden
With dear Bob Weir of the Grateful Dead
Who died last week, but that night long ago Weir was singing
To thousands of Deadheads in the dark holding votive candles.
The Grateful Dead was an ambulance Double-parked with flashing lights
Dashing into the pizza place to grab a slice.
Weir was worried he'd be recognized outside and mobbed
But wasn't.
And what is America going to eat today at City D,
The La Coupole of upper Broadway?
What could be better than a seat at the counter
For a City Diner regular!
Mel is our manager and manger.
Sitting at the counter with her lunchtime glass of white win,
First chair to the left
As you enter the front door,
Is a living Fra Angelico named Susan Delmonico, sublime, divine, Center of the shrine.
I hear men marching. Trump Trump Trump Trump.
It’s jailtime. I’m frightened.
There’s nothing to sing except a song
Because it won’t be long. It’s all gone wrong.
I’m frightened.