On the day when I compose
The Best Man Speech for my brother's wedding,
Quoting Lin Manual-Miranda,
Practicing quoting "love is love is love"
In the bathroom mirror,
As I forcefully gesticulate for the triumphant finale,
That little seed of self-doubt creeps in.

I haven't done enough, haven't accomplished enough.
I need to write some poems; I need to submit more.
I'm published widely; I haven't been published in a week.
It isn't good enough; it's never good enough.
I'm never good enough.
As Radiohead said, I've given it all I've got,
And yet,
I'm never good enough.

George Saunders is a better writer than I could ever be,
Such an incisive observer of the modern condition,
So witty and urbane,
A satirist with staying power.
Everybody loves a writer who’s legit funny.
It’s the Cinnamon and sugar in the oatmeal of reading.

George Saunders is smarter than me.
Dude is a bona fide scientist
Who earned a degree of geophysical engineering
From one of the STEMiest of STEM schools.
I was an English Major, and even English Major nerd god
Garrison Keillor rags on us as likely to someday ask
If you’d like fries with that.

George Saunders has lived a more adventurous life than me.
He was an engineer who worked on pipelines in Sumatra
And regales NPR types with his tales about venturing
Headlong into a monkey ****-contaminated river.
He’s thatched roofs, pulled knuckles at a slaughterhouse,
Rang up purchases at a 7-Eleven.
Saunders proposed to his wife after three weeks.

George Saunders is more distinguished than me.
His list of awards is endless.
Guggenheims, MacArthur genius grants, PEN/Malamud Awards,
A gaggle of National Magazine Awards,
The ******* Lannan Foundation.
Everyone has honored the guy.
I've got a bronze pig and some plaques.

George Saunders is more beloved than I am.
He addresses graduating classes all over the country.
Everyone man, woman and child has read “Sea Oak.”
Every man, woman and child loves “Sea Oak.”
It’s taught in every college in the country.
It’s about as perfect as a short story can get.

Realistically, I’ll never be as good a writer as George Saunders,
Yet the brilliance he pours forth into the world
Inspires me to write.

Topolobampo, Xoco, Xoco River North,
Frontera Grill, Frontera Fresco, Fonda Frontera,
Tortas Frontera, Frontera Cocina,
Lena Brava, Cruz Blanca,
Red O.

PBS specials, Michelin stars and public cooking demos
be ******,
that's too many, right?

Load up your guac with all the pork belly and pepitas
you want.
Star in a self-indulgent Lookingglass Theatre play.
Soak up the accolades of being a culinary genius
more than a Jalisco-style slow-braised goat
sits in its own juices.
But hey man, come on,
give us a break.

The zine entailed a ton of work
that mostly went unnoticed.

He printed, folded, stapled
a slapdash publication few appreciated.

Stacked ten-deep, it festered unread in coffee shops,
indie bookstores, craft breweries.

A zinester isn't daunted by obscurity.
After all, a zinester is never voiceless.

The biggest regrets of my literary life
Are not the rejections
Where I could have maybe slightly
Improved nearly impossible odds
With a little more effort or polish.

The biggest regrets are
Gone and buried literary journals
I felt a kinship with
But never mustered the fortitude
To submit to.

While in college,
I should have sent poems or short stories
To Canvas, Bathtub Gin, and a host of
Other ephemeral publications
That have since shuffled off this mortal coil.

I feared I wasn't ready.
Only later I learned
You're never ready,
You just have to plunge off that cliff.
You have have to find the courage to hit "send."

Excitement burbled among the masses
As they crushed through the turnstiles
In their off-the-rack jerseys and faded caps.

Pewter clouds teared, tarp blanketed the field,
Not a single pitch was thrown out on this semi-religious holiday.

But fans' spirits were hardly dampened by the rain delay.
The game would be played later,
And something had changed in the air.

Win or lose,
Cowhide slapped into leather.
The odor of sausages wafted off the grill.
Bats cracked hopefully,
Electricity crackled through the bleachers.

That old ballpark magic
Conjured enough ambiance
To swallow a lazy summer whole.

Prototype robotic semi-trailer truck gets rolled out.
It’s tricked out with speed control, radar, lidar,
Autonomous braking, collision avoidance,
Sensors, cameras, GPS.

All manner of state-of-the-art tech replaces the driver,
The imperfect driver
Who needs to sleep, who stops to eat,
Who speeds, snorts amphetamines, smashes into hapless sedans.
The automated truck has no such weakness, ten-four good buddy.

"The driverless future," a suit boasts in boardroom.
Another job fades, like waning daylight
On that endless ribbon of highway.
Shortly, pitch darkness will descend
And envelop the countryside.