On campus, warm sun bathing my shoulders as I listen to two girls discuss poetry (and the dreamy guy who teaches their class) and I try not to laugh at them as they talk about how romantic I would be to have poetry written about them. I want to ask them if they are really that stupid. Instead, I bite my tongue and enjoy the taste of pennies that floods my mouth and keep my laughter gurgling inside of me. I long to ask these simpering, silly girls if they have ever read any poetry about life. Not about the romantic notions of life, but about really-real life. Poetry about blood and pain and ******* and dying and loving and art and I want to force feed them great ****** bites of Chaucer or Ginsberg or Bukowski. Yeah... Bukowski. Visceral, blunt, gory, beautiful Bukowski. But I have a feeling that this action would go unappreciated. Their poets don’t use language like “****” or “****”. Their poets don’t talk about the world I know. Their poets live in a world of rewrite and revise. I want to scream at them how silly they are and how much their views will change over the next few years. And I realize that I may have been staring (glaring?) at them because they have fallen silent and are now looking at me with the squeamish discomfort of people who have just realized that they’re being observed. And I think to myself, “**** it,” and I smile and tell them that their handsome poetry professor is married, and their idea of poetry is limited. “You should read some Bukowski,” I tell them, “Then, you just might get it” and they gaze up at me slack-jawed, staring blankly for a moment, and I want to make sure I have not sprouted another head. Instead, I gather my things and walk away. And as I do, I revel in a fleeting feeling of superiority because I know. I understand. I get it. And I can almost feel special.