From The New Yorker (May 31, 2010)
I told the waiter there was schmutz
on my machete. He informed me
I wasn’t sitting in the Yiddish section.
Being bilingual, I told the waiter
there was gunk on my machete. Oh, he apologized
then and brought me straight away
a new machete, with which I sliced
the brisket as if clearing a path
through a forest to a temple in a life
more glamorous than the four dollars
and thirty-two cents in my pocket
with which I couldn’t possibly pay
what I owe to Jean-Paul Sartre for writing
‘No Exit,’ since walking out on that play
introduced me as if for the first time
to the moon. Try feeling crushed
by the void of existence while staring
at a waxing moon with or without
a full stomach before or after
cleaning your machete on your sleeve.
Yes, that’s a dare, a double-dog dare,
to talk as kids used to talk in a time
of innocence that certainly never existed.
–Bob Hicok
