Mark Yakich, p.4


First off, let me say I can only do what I can do. I can’t
change the slit of my eyes, the hue of my skin,
or the size of my prodigal nose. God knows I’ve tried.
And yet it’s nice to discuss these things in an open way, free
from bumping into floating sandbars, culpable charity, free
from even too much rigor. But what cannot be
free enough is competition, minus the vinegar. Stay with me,
please. I need to be included. Inclusion is a tricky task
when your audience numbers more than two members
(familial excluded) and reckons your minutes. The best
one can hope for is to engender a certain sense of curiosity
in one’s scholars. Underlings may agree and disagree,
but the tide shall wipe them all out. All my sins remembered.
Not too loudly. Shakespeare tutored me in prayer.
Not too loudly. You see, the real trouble is not in tolerance—
for that’s simply another word for self-segregation—the true
trouble is finding appreciation in our fellow folk. It’s in there,
somewhere between acknowledgement and confession.
Between duty and due care. There is a lot of space to play.
We are all more likeable than different but somehow I keep
forgetting that. I infer I am still human. Take the French
Revolution. It can now be confirmed that Sèvres porcelain
teacups, from said era, were not modeled on Marie Antoinette’s
breasts. And Michelangelo’s David, infallible, his penis is indeed
proportionate to his body. But what is the virtue of commensurate
response? I defer to geography, a discipline that no longer
exists, how it seeks its proper stimulus in the surplus of itself.
Case in point. Tonight, I confess, all the white horses are
in bed. The barrel is in its crib. The civilized ways will have to
do all they can, to keep the neighbor’s dog from keeping
me up. I can no longer tolerate my true love,
who has vanished between a couple of friends. But look,
there! That weight of friendship at the bottom’s depth,
now somehow surfaces. Buoyed by tears.