Jose Canseco is gone. Not...like, not actually gone. He may go to Worcester, Massachusetts to play for a Can-Am League team, but close though it may be in some ways, that is not the same thing as actually being dead or gone. But Jose Canseco is gone from Twitter.
Given that Twitter had been home to Canseco's best work in recent months—he was so good at it, in fact, that Buzzfeed gave his grandiose rants a thorough Corgi-meme'ing last week—this is no small loss. While Canseco's just-this-side-of-poignant desire for attention should soon serve to get him back onto Twitter, or a VH1 celebreality nightmare carnival, or at least into some Florida celebrity boxing ring, the black sheep Bash Brother is, for the moment, gone. If there is ever an occasion for poetry, this would certainly appear to be it.
I weep now for Canseco—he is dead!
O, we weep for Canseco! though our tears
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!
And thou, sad account, chosen best athlete's
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure retweets,
And teach them thine own sorrow, say: "With me
Died Canseco; until the Future dares
Forget the Past, his tweets and texts shall be
An echo and a light unto eternity!"
Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not tweet—
He hath awakened from our online life—
'Tis we, who lost in social networks, keep
With phantoms an unprofitable strife,
And in mad trance, strike with our spirit's knife
Unreadable nonsense. —We decay
Like corpses in a charnel; lulz and memes
Convulse us and consume us day by day,
And bad jokes and at signs swarm like worms within our stunted communique.
He has outsoared the shadow of Twitter;
Envy and calumny and lists and pain,
And those follow Fridays which leave us bitter,
Can touch him not and torture not again;
From the contagion of the world's slow stain
He is secure, and now can never mourn
A joke grown stale, account followed in vain;
Nor, when the snickering DMs have ceased to come,
Solicit sad stifled hookups no starfucker would shun.