Note to self re Evils of Hipster Careerism in The Literary Arts

(after Mel Brooks)

What did you expect? “Welcome, sonny”? “Make yourself at home”?

You insist on holding up a flash-lit mirror to their unspeakable parts

again and again (and from every angle)

without giving them a chance to hide

their infections behind a copy

of Tao Lin’s latest novel. And yet you’re disappointed

the National Nest Egg for The Arts doesn’t employ

the daughters (or sons) of the wealthy —

the type who get warm feelings whenever

they hear the word ‘poetry’ — to fill

your monthly bathtub with salts

enough to make you fizz,

before pampering you all over

until you’re supple as newly made

blancmange.

 

What you’ve got to remember

is that these are people who think

the Grand Canyon is a metaphor

for the hole inside themselves

they spend forever trying to fill;

that insurrection is wearing

a bowler hat ironically in a restaurant

made of designer Formica and no website.

Folks who, had they been around at the time

would’ve spent every spare hour liking

the Instagram posts of the late

Leni Riefenstahl. You know,

the sort who went to find themselves

on gap years in Cambodia,

and tragically did.

 

KEVIN HIGGINS is The Bogmans Cannon satirist-in-residence

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