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Manuel Yang © 2003

 

 
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        "I fuck therefore I am,"
I once read on a T-shirt emblazoned
on a shop window of Forbidden Fruit that the Austin Wobs were trying to organize.
It was around that time that I first heard about the Zaps in the Lacandona Mountains
and learned how to use Marx to get laid and steal books from the library.
A young, cocky, dim-witted loser, I retrospectively think of him,
no manners, delusions of grandeur, sex-addled, nearly alcoholic,
headed for a life of redundant failures picking garbage and puking in the streets.
Going to jail helped (so many criminalized for merely
        drinking, sniffing coke, or illegal parking!)
but an anarchist woman who lived Lao-Tze was the one who truly
        saved (a word she'll no doubt exterminate with extreme lack of prejudice) me,
the first & last woman who seduced me and then wisely left me to fend on my own.
The Marxist author of RCP put up with me
and, later, when I left Austin, the Marxist author of LH,
and whatever Marxism of worth that I badly possess I owe to these two men.
On how to live freely & fearlessly, to turn the "therefore" between an act and ontology
into the purity of the here and now swirling in a cup of tea as we sat in seiza, face to face,
I learned from her,
though, as with Marxism, I've been a terrible disciple here, too.

Once a beginner, always a beginner, I won't have it any other way, but
I hope a little of my youthful cockiness and dim-wittedness has blunted with time.
(If not, so what, you'll live!)
Because, as I imagine a future when time fades me out,
I want to go anonymously, unremembered & alone, like that sip of tea
whose rising steam cleared my sight.

   
   
   

 

 
   
         

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