Che Guevara is white and wearing a shirt 

with his face on it, mansplaining Derrida or Adorno

a hat like your grandfather used to wear though at least

the man knew something about the great war [2]. This Che

hasn’t worked out how to borrow a book from the Baillieu yet

& his diary suggests a paranoid persona not a propensity

toward engines – see, he is trying to build something here

the exact proportions of which were lost with Da Vinci

or was it Dan Brown? Your dog, likewise, is a sommelier 

of poop. Can snack twice on an idea of self but never

quite muster a technology. The part of the rewriting

in present tense hasn’t become present yet. Present 

to self: presence. The sort of gift that keeps giving

you anxiety. Untangle a tongue, but still the memory

of knots. You are me are him, in a sense of difference

though there is nothing deferential about this. We both 

hate him, hate you. Just join the environmental society  

& hoon a cherry vape with someone just as old & stupid

as you will be. Imagine: dealing with humanity every day. 

Imagine: people turn to you, gasp. Imagine: mansplaining 

but this time end up with an abanico, a PowerPoint &

a briefcase. Imagine: the classroom gets that much 

smaller and becomes an office.