I’ve seen the
greatest minds of my generation
busted for
malfeasance.
Crying glib
crocodile tears.
The codpiece of
tenure ripped aside like so much recycled paper.
Keening.
Staggering
through Bridgeport,
foul of breath
from ersatz Cuban panatellas,
singing out tthe
true stories of their lives,
fuelled by
Maker’s Mark, Dylan and a heaped tablespoonful of self-pity.
Embittered.
Half-written
memoirs, unfinished romains,
the glorious
shimmering stank of student pussy in their mustaches.
Trapped in the
afterglow of the grins of lesbian colleagues.
Their chances
now doubly improved, they smile,
bask in your
misery. A Superior predator
Grateful.
Their kids and
anti-trophy wives
like question
marks burned into forehead
by the tip of
the white-hot rapier that was once your own sense of humor
but now belongs
to your spawn.
Crying.
Yeah, cry,
motherfucker, you only went into teaching for the three free months
of summer
so you could
disappoint your parents,
show off your
scintillating repartee
and shagshagshag
little slags.
Laugh.
Gigglle when you
encounter the winners.
Their classrooms
trouble free.
Risk averted at
the very gates.
The dross
propaganda of Derrida, Beaudrillard and f-f-f-fucking Foucault,
dead without a
gutter, without a singular tear.
Hallelujah.
I’ve seen the
greatest minds of my generation purple with envy.
Preaching
against the national debt .
Haunted by the
prospect of perpetual war,
and a singular
dream where their children’s children bear prayer rugs.
Dream.
World’s end, as
the sun, a pitted, acne-infected orange,
spitting its
haliotosis accompanied by a bass-heavy worldbeat soundtrack,
weights and
measures,
whimpers-versus-bangs
God and the
devil in the final World Series.
