garics of the global market and to thernworld’s hungry mouths and emptyrnhands, which are willing to work so hardrnfor so erv little, hi such a world, it mayrnturn out that what de Gaulle had to say sea-port and intends to remain so.” Tornabout a little port in Normandy was not that, I can think of only one thing to add,rna fatuity, but the fiery challenge of a Vive le Quebec libre!rnprophet and a statesman. “Fecamp is a ‘ trnTestamentrnby Paul Lakernhi this, my fortieth year of age,rnI wake beneath a surf of sheet,rnStone sober, my mind a crumpled page,rnM- life a sentence, half complete;rnStill niircd in the old conceitrnAnd lust for literary fame,rnI stare down darkness, death, defeat—rn(But is the candle worth the game?)rn1 think of Baudelaire’s refrain—rn”Get drunk!—on wine or poetry,rnOn irtue, hashish, crack cocaine—rnBut get drunk ceaselessly, or bernhi moments of sobrietyrnAnother niartrcd slaye of time”—rnAnd how on such authorityrnFor twenty years, I binged on rhyme.rnBut noyy, in more prosaic days,rnI see my life’s been chiefly spentrn(While others yyon the jobs, the bays)rnhi silence, exile, unemployment.rnAnd third-rate jobs; my sole enjoyment,rnArranging words in borrowed rooms.rnFor which, to meet demands for rent,rnI’NC sold possessions, hocked heirlooms—rnhi short, beha’ed like any addictrnWho mortgaged future time to buyrn(Instead of houses) one more crackrnAt fame, that last infirmity….rnI gambled all on poetry.rnThat swaybackcd Pegasus, whose wingsrnHae been clipped by modernityrnTo Hallmark cards and Elvis Sings!rnAh God, had I instead pursued,rnWith such ambition, more degreesrnOr shovyn a higher aptitudernFor essa’ing in Theorese—rn”(En) Gendering the BoundariesrnOf Discourse: Gay’s Transgressive Plays,”rnOr “(De)Constructing Patriarchy’srnCruel, Objectifying Gaze”—rnI’d teach at Yale—or Kansas State;rnI’d spend my summers in Milan;rnI’d edit, collate, annotate,rnAnd publish work in Raritan.rnI’d have a house, a miniyan,rnA Macintosh, and two grants pending.rnReturning from the Caribbean,rnI’d vow to cut back on my spending.rnToo late for that. At forty, whornCan overthrow a lifetime’s vices?rnI’ll spend my life in TimbukturnComposing verse, although the price isrnA bleak old age, enduring crisis,rnAnd thoughts embittered by the knowledgernThat cash alone is what suffices.rnA name won’t put my kids through college.rnAnd so, like Crusoe on his isle,rnI put the State of my AffairsrnIn writing—not as in a Will,rnSince I am like to have few Heirs—rnBut setting Comforts against Cares,rnAnd weighing Bad against the Good,rnAs Debtors do with Creditors,rnTo soothe my self as best I could:rnI am cast up in Russellville,rnVoid of all hope of Rescue.rn—Good:rnBut could be teaching in Brazil,rnOr in a high crime neighborhood.rnI’m separated from the WorldrnOf Letters, banished from humanernSociety; alone; exiled.rn—But have the Mail, stamps, and a phone.rn1 have few Clothes to cover me.rn—True, but nowhere else to go.rnNo talkrn—But book clubs wonderfullyrnSupply the occasional bon-mot.rnAnd so on . . . till, upon the whole,rnI’m reconciled to my conditionrnAs well, almost, as R. Crusoe—rnExcept my life is not a fiction.rnWhat use to moan and beat my breast,rnCurse fate, or slander my vocation,rnCounting myself among the oppressedrnBecause I’ve reached no higher station?rnI give a local habitationrnTo airy nothing, and a namernTo shapes formed in imagination—rn(But is the candle worth the game?)rnOCTOBER 1995/35rnrnrn