I spoke last night with Danny Shot, who gave me sad news of the death this week of poet Jack Wiler. Jack lived with AIDS for many years, and he gave readings from his books as recently as this past weekend. I reviewed one of his books in the 1990s, and we were friends for over twelve years. Sadly, we recently promised many times to attend each other’s readings but never did. Danny Shot and Bob Holman are working on a memorial reading at the Bowery Poetry Club in December. I hope to be one of the readers. More information will be made available as it comes in. In the meantime, here is one of Jack’s poems. You may also visit his website for more.

“We Monsters” by Jack Wiler

At work every day for weeks I’ve been drowning.
People pestering me for answers to questions that have
answers they don’t want.

Yes, you have mice.
Yes, you have cockroaches.
Yes, you live in a nice apartment.
Yes, your apartment has a high rent
and you are an important person.
Yes, you are smart.
yes and yes and yes again.

But, no.
Think about this for a minute.
You live in New York.
The sewers are lined with roaches.
The Chinese restaurants swarm with roaches.
The rats come out each night from burrows by the parks
and feed on your leavings.
Drink from the last drips of your iced coffee.
Nibble at your spilled salad.
Slide insistent into your restaurant’s basement and
scurry happy through a world of food.
Not unlike you.

You’re the only living thing that should be happy here?
Flies haven’t the right to light on your cast off soda?
Fungus gnats shouldn’t graze happy on your drain?
Cockroaches shouldn’t congregate in the dark spaces in your cabinets?

You’re their landlord.
You’re their parents.
You are their God.
Why not be happy with that.
Why not stroke their hard skin, their rough fur.
Why not offer them some wire for gnawing, some toy.
Like you do your dog.
Your cat.

They have no right to these things?
No right to joy?
Jammed up thousands at a time in the tiny spaces behind
your cupboard?
Forced to forage on your leavings like wretches?
You, the rich landowner, throwing them scraps and bits and still
you begrudge them even that
and call me to bring their lives to a close
because you pay so much in rent.
You tyrants.
You monsters.
Filled with privilege and power unable to spend one minute with
them and their stupid little lives.

There may be some parable here.
Perhaps you are the cockroach.
Perhaps you are the rat.
Perhaps one day you will scurry out from the subway platform
onto the train and sing a song begging for food.
Perhaps you will turn away.
Perhaps you will say, I have no time for this.

All of us huddled in this mess.
Hunting for food.
Sipping at tiny draughts.
Taking brief respites.
All of us rats and mice and roaches and ants.
All of us monsters.