The Disquietude of an Essayist, Circa Present Day

There was a dissipation of my talents,

I knew this to be true when I began playing Ouija with my typewriter,

when they stopped talking about my way with words

I used to have a way,

a very elusive and elucidating ability to say what I meant

and to mean something entirely different

and that was hip,

when it was hip to not be hip,

when it was a feat to be at this Algonquin roundabout of ours,

when my red pen was the goddess on your page,

and your page,

and yours

There was a mutiny on the bounty,

some time ago,

brought on by the dizziness of the Vicious Circle,

before I ever fell ill to the block,

before I ever discovered the toxic beauty of disbelief

Some time ago,

you all looked at me differently than you do now,

but now my beloved typewriter is in the glass diorama of a retro store,
somewhere off of Main Street,
who cares which one,

and like all of this,

none of it belongs to me anymore