DFW Is Dead
We’re supposed to be unironic now; so I guess I better write about the neon-red tulip beds on a pastoral campus. From a distance, they look like a swath of red, and I’m glad the red isn’t blood. As far as I know: this isn’t on TV. Violets are supposed to be the drops of Attis’ blood, I heard. I’m staying unironic, talking about universal human values, like beauty, love, death, cash flow, not necessarily in that order. (Uh oh – watch it – I detect a hint of irony). Well, yes, but what created all this irony we’re swimming in in the first place? Bored teenagers? The seventh day? The seventh seal? Throw her a fish! (Come on, writer – this isn’t a joke. Help us change our lives without changing our income. Speak of the rigged markets, the artificial persons, the Heartbleed, but do so earnestly. Make your heart bleed. After all, there is no blood on your street) As though there were somewhere to go back to? As though sincerity hasn’t been commodified as well? “Being ignorant, comfortably,” dreaming of being apart from the Bourse. The Archaic Torso of Apollo lamp is set to medium-hi and says there is nowhere you are not observed. You must change your password. (OK – that’s it. I’m shutting this ^$*&*^%& poem down! Irony is so . . . 2008. We want something new, the next big thing, something that makes us keep wanting something new. We want to know what’s left in the bottom of the box).