Revisionist History
Poem
Article voiceover
It didn't happen in the way they say it did. But it didn't happen in the way you think it did, either. People go to war to prove their wrongness is the most blessed of the wrongnesses. Meanwhile, I can't find my keys, wallet, or phone right now so I'll just stay home and drink the cold cup of coffee that I brewed this morning and forgot on the kitchen table. I want my coffee to be cave-dark and too strong. I want my nerves to tangle. I want to make a list of every instance in which I've been wrong. That list is long. The coffee is bitter. I believe in heroic ideas but I don't believe in heroes. I daily subtract my soul's debits from its credits and I celebrate whenever my end of shift total is any number greater than zero.
Over the years I have frequently taught Alexie's verse and prose poetry in my course called "Black Humor in Contemporary American Poetry." I see echoes of those early poems in recent poems, but this "new" Alexie continues to surprise. Many of the old themes are the same because, of course, they are the universal themes of all poetry. But the presentation, the short lines and brief stanzas keep one guessing, as if you are walking down an alley, then making an abrupt turn down another alley, while, unknown to you, Sherman is waiting patiently with a blackjack in hand, whose sting always tends to reveal a necessary flaw in the human condition.
Oh, man, this one rang my bell. Thank you!