Things We Miss

I miss when there didn’t have to be a bad guy
And when every bad guy wasn’t Hitler
I miss how Ernie made it meaningful to be a man
I miss when we didn’t have to spend paragraphs on everybody’s stupid eyes
I miss Hunter’s vitriolic hubris
I miss when erudition had a point
I miss Leo throwing trains around with absolute conviction
I miss heros that didn’t have to be super
I believe the world is a less interesting place without Hank’s mastery of the word “cunt”
I miss kennings
I miss when every sentence, every thought, did not require a personal pronoun
I miss the cynical jig in every line of James
Christ, I miss when every book didn’t have to be about twice-gay trannys
I miss how reading felt like I was sitting in Papa Twain’s lap
I miss the well-intentioned god that at least made an ergo possible, here and there
I miss allegories that weren’t about sex, politics, or religion
I miss F Scott’s rotted glamor and wish he could have met Trent Reznor
I miss when it wasn’t either about the cash, or overtly ignorant of the cash
I miss Johnny’s good boozy folk
I miss when we didn’t have to kiss Oprah’s ass
I miss Vlad’s dirty little truth
I miss the days before exotic punctuation (fuck: you!?)
The world is certainly smaller without Jorge Luis’ infinite imagination, though possibly also less terrifying
I miss the little bit of magic that Gabriel used to hide under every stone
I miss how Norman stripped everything down to naked
I miss how description used to be about capturing something
I miss Kurt’s whimsy and his drawings of assholes and beavers
I miss how writers were quietly content to hide between the lines
I miss the time when ideas were still dangerous, like Tom’s Rockets
I miss when death, war and hopelessness could even touch the rich

I miss these things, and understand they are gone forever
Ernest Hemingway is not walking through that door
The meaning of our lives cannot be found in Finnegan’s Wake
Gary Shteyngart’s new novel will not be Anna Karenina II
Tucker Max, they don’t serve beer in the canon
The goal has changed
It used to enough to write to reveal the undiscovered
There is nothing new in the world
We must write to rediscover truths and meaning
In the things we miss