People have been discussing the influence of books of poetry, so I thought I’d bring up and discuss this poem, one of my favorites as a kid (when I had to look up the definitions of “Dirge” and “denouement”) It ended up being very influential to me. Kenneth Fearing not only wrote poetry but was also a freelance journalist (who dabbled in pulp fiction.) His use of advertising and comic book language, his anti-lyricism, and irony seeped into my work – I even named a poem after this one, “Dirge for a Video Game Heroine.” Also, he loves the serial comma.
This poem seems appropriate for our times given that is was written during the Great Depression and focuses on the disillusionment with the excesses of capitalism and the emptiness of America’s material obsessions. He was once asked whether he was a Communist in a witch-hunt trial, and he responded “Not yet.” Like another of my favorite poems, T. Roethke’s “Dolor,” this chronicles the unique sorrow of white collar work.

Dirge

1-2-3 was the number he played but today the number came 3-2-1;
Bought his Carbide at 30 and it went to 29; had the favorite
at Bowie but the track was slow –

O executive type, would you like to drive a floating-power, knee-action, silk-upholstered six? Wed a Hollywood star? Shoot the course in 58? Draw to the ace, king, jack?
O fellow with a will who won’t take no, watch out for three cigarettes on the same, single match; O democratic voter born in August under Mars, beware of liquidated rails-

Denouement to denouement, he took a personal pride in the certain, certain way he lived his own, private life,
But nevertheless, they shut off his gas; nevertheless, the bank foreclosed; nevertheless, the landlord called; nevertheless, the radio broke,

And twelve o’clock arrived just once too often,
Just the same he wore one gray tweed suit, bought one straw hat, drank one straight Scotch, walked one short step, took one long look, drew one deep breath,
Just one too many,

And wow he died as wow he lived,
Going whop to the office and blooie home to sleep and biff got married and bam had children and oof got fired,
Zowie did he live and zowie did he die,

With who the hell are you at the corner of his casket, and where the hell’re we going on the right-hand silver knob, and who the hell cares walking second from the end with an American Beauty wreath from why the hell not,

Very much missed by the circulation staff of the New York Evening Post; deeply mourned by the B.M.T.
Wham, Mr Roosevelt; pow, Sears Roebuck; awk, big dipper; bop, summer rain;
Bong, Mr., bong, Mr., bong, Mr., bong.