Lacking Eunoia

My favorite work of all time is a book-length poem. It was published in 2001. That’s this century. Whenever anyone asks me my favorite work, or favorite poem, or favorite author from the 21st century, I have my answer ready. I don’t have to admit how few other writers from this century who—and poems from this century that—I actually know. I feel smart about having these answers ready.

This is the only century I am going to live in, so I never have to change my answer. 

I did live for a while in the previous century, but I didn’t like it very much. I’ve spent about the same amount of time in this century. I don’t like this one too much either. 

What am I going to miss by not living in the next century? What am I missing by not living in this one?

***

I hate my favorite poet.  No, I do not hate him; I am jealous. He is much smarter, more creative, than I am. When I was younger, I created some new forms and constraints in writing. Then I discovered my favorite poet. He had already written and mastered every form I had invented. I did not invent them, apparently. And those works he wrote in those forms and constraints I did not invent are not even his best works. His best work blows me away. It is not a single narrative meant to be read through. Especially all at once. I’ve read it straight through a dozen times. I think I tell everyone I know about it. In my life, no one has ever read it. The only people who have even heard of it heard of it because I told them about it. Then they forget.

How long do you remember the title of someone’s favorite book when they tell you what it is?

He claims he took ten years to write it. That means he was writing in the last century. So my favorite work from this century is my favorite work written in the last century too, then.

The publisher of my favorite work by my favorite writer is my favorite publisher. If I told you the name of my favorite publisher, for how long would you remember the name before you forgot and I had to tell you again?

***

My wife is asleep or else I might tell her again about my favorite poet. She knows his name. She probably forgets the name of the work. She has never heard of the publisher. I have told her, but she has forgotten.