Dear Academia;
I took the adderall
because I thought
you wanted me
to be a machine.  I didn't
understand that
amphetamine tasted
like candy once you
got used to the way
your jaw locked and your
ears rang.  Dear
academia, did you
see my face when you
read my GPA, did
you see the way I stayed
up too late after my
after school activities
trained me to live with
anxieties?  Dear academia,
why am I afraid of the mirror?
Why did you teach me how
to write a perfect paper but
never prepared me for
the look in his eye when he told
me he didn't love me either.  Dear
academia, i'm ******* and you're
swallowing me, does the sting
of your impulses feel better
when you know you're eating
my hard earned money?  
Dear academia, why
do you give me empty promises?  Why
should I spill my blood with
this diploma, list
my ethnicity and birthdate
next to the insignificance
of what you think makes me
worthy, do
these details feed your
impending due dates or
are you just getting off
to the idea that
only the educated few
know how to
think straight?  Dear
academia,
I tried my hardest
to let you fool me, I
can feel your ego fattening
beside me as I watch your
children scramble for their
ideas of monetary
gluttony.  You're increasing
our wage gaps, do my late night
tears fuel your addiction to epistemic
poverty?  Dear academia, you
taught me to think critically.   I am on fire
with the matches you forgot
you hatched within
me.  Scorpions occasionally
eat their parents and I hate
to admit that this ****
has me hungry.

Why can’t we swear in academia?
Why can’t we swear in acedmia?
Tell me, WHY THE **** can’t we swear in academia,
why the EVER LOVING **** , can’t we swear in academia?

Say **** how we’d actually say ****? Why the **** we gotta contort into this ****-*** RESPONSIBLE, PROPER, PROFESSIONAL, BUSINESS-CASUAL, ******* ***-WIPING ******* LANGUAGE that no one can ******* relate to or get their head around? Academia GET YOUR RESPECTABILITY POLITICS OFF MY ****, OUT OF MY FACE AND OFF MY **** and let me say “****’S ****** UP!” when **** sure as **** IS ****** UP! Actually no, academia, **** OUTTA HERE WITH YOUR TONE POLICING CLUSTERFUCK, I’m not waiting for permission. I’m gunna start right the **** now. And don’t you dare tell me to shut up, **** **** **** ******-****, YOU BIG-BOYZ CLUB OF WHITE ***** *******, **** yourself.

There was a ransom for a queen,
a shining glimpse of hope.
There was a sick and dying scene,
a message for the pope.
The disparity made us desperate
and so we decided to occupy
a building of the public sector
until they met our demands.
What a plan, what a plan!
We were comfortably clinging
to the safety net of fashion,
we were terribly in order.
There were things less trivial
than the status quo, you knew that
I knew that you didn't know.
We were perfectly defined
in the terms of academia,
hey,
        can I follow ya?

Dimension beginning of vile ****** exposed,
And the Emperor has no clothes,
While helplessly strut a mighty walk without a shame.

Course of history repeating itself,
Like the flow of water meeting in the river of streams,
But recycle through the clouds and back to the ground it flows.

Are we so blinded by the glimmer of the mirage of oasis in the desert,
We toast with sands of dune to quench our thirst of our plight,
And all is but a fickling light ducktaped by words of unintelligible muddled murmur?

This is truly the flawed design of our time,
When we no longer promote arts and crafts of philosophies,
And religious cults of zealots condemned the science and Academia by berating it's achievement.

Likes of ancient times of Agora and the height of it's human enlightenment,
There are forces of deconstruction of society of choas ensued by hateful fear mongers,
And systematic inward of national fevor of berserkers leveling progress.

Maybe another dark age is inevitable,
But little seed of hope I feel tangible,
And sometimes event maybe a phoenix.

My hometown
is a place
of rustic beauty
and simple people
a population
under 200
meant that
everybody knew everybody
farmer Neville
and his sheep
always on the loose
and the quiz night
at the pub
just another excuse
to get drunker and drunker
and the private boarding school
which I attended
so rich with false academia
we learned the lessons
which would prepare us
for the false prophets yet to come
and the public school
and their ***** uniforms
where I found my friends
friends who at this point
have arrest records
ranging from assault
to petty larceny
and criminally wasted potential
oh how I miss that town
even now,
because despite the racism
and xenophobia
which infest my kinsmen
I still have to believe
that things can get better
that life there
can match the beauty
of North Yorkshire farm lands
and woodlands
and friendly knowing smiles
My hometown isn't perfect
and I wouldn't have it
any other way

This is an ode to Adderall,

that wonderful mixture of

dextroamphetamine sulfate

dextroamphetamine saccharate

amphetamine

aspartate monohydrate

and amphetamine sulfate capsules

that all combine together

to form a prescribable pill

questionably similar to the Schedule II controlled substance street drug

commonly refered to as "Speed."


This is an ode to the children

who are bundles of energy caged in a classroom

incapable of concentrating

on the miniscule tasks given to them

by pedagogical authorities that

promise societal success and economic happiness

to those who complete their work on time

without a fuss or a doubt as to why they're

filling in bubbles on paper in the first place.

The confused children who watch

as others with calmer brains

fixate eyes on textbooks

rather than out the window.


This is an ode to Society

deeming these individuals as broken

choosing to wound then medicate

rather than proliferate.

That took their inquisitiveness

and locked it in a book with the label "DISORDER"

stating that you will never be anything

unless you think and feel the same way we do.

And much like a mad doctor

lobotomizing those whom he thinks insane

they synthesized a pill

to dampen a torrential brilliance

allowing them to place their sedated children

back in the box where they belonged.


This is an ode to the college students

chained by academic standards

expected to excel towards great things

if only they reach that ethereal diploma.

The students who crave the artificial focus

the increased capacity for concentration

with the broadened spectrum of perception

the sense of purpose in the tedium

the ungodly ability to think clearly

and perform the meaningless tasks they expect of us.

The students who go through illegal means

to purchase said drug

to swallow or snort

and dive back into the mountain of responsibility

with a new found sense of productivity and motivation.

An ode to the students

unable to find purpose in studenthood

the ones who find more virtue in watching the sunset

burn clouds into firework oblivion

before then blessing us with uncritical night.

An ode to the students

who discover more education

in climbing to the top of a mountain

and yelling a nonsense decree of passion

just to watch the echo

bounce from shore to shore

in cathartic reverberation.

The ones

for which our pill

is the only possible manner

of assigning purpose to purposeless assignments.

These are the ones

who must binge

cram for days before

the big exams

going whole nights without sleep

or food.

The ones slowly cracking under the increasing pressure of academia

spending more time questioning why they must complete their homework

instead of actually completing it.


This is an ode to my brothers and sisters

who stand in horror at the mold we must fit into

crafted by an unknown unshakable entity.

The ones who lost the appeal of cookie-cutter success

in exchange for a small understanding

of the way things really work.

The cogs that twisted off the machine

and now sit lotus-posed in the corner.

My fellow birds with broken wings

still expected to fly.

My fellow carpenters expected to build their estates

yet not given the proper tools to do so.

The ones of cursed cold clarities

perfectly capable of clutching

those fifteen minutes of dynasty

yet refrain from doing so due to

the immaculate futility of it all.


This is an ode to a drug induced rant

that no one will read

the one that I chose to write

instead of doing my **** homework in the library

like a compliant student.


This is an ode to the pressure-oriented procrastinators

that delay and yet again delay

their petty necessary obligations due to purposeless and exhausted motivation.

Swallowing substances to summon some sort of incentive

to fill in the bubbles

and cater to the Society they find so confusing

the ones who only under influence of synthesized chemicals

find reason to squeeze into that culturebox

that cascades down a bumpy man-made conveyor belt

branding a diploma onto your forehead

injecting an occupation into your veins

transforming your pupils to dollar bill signs

demanding you breed children

to do the same as you have

and you'll never be happy unless you do these things

right?


This is an ode to those who reside in the shadows

of our broken social system

and conjure up great conversations

pertaining to everything and nothing

that are as wonderful and necessary

as the prints of your fingers

caressing down a comfortable torso

just before the sun rises

the untouchable indescribable realizations of life and love

that are completely irrelevant in their eyes

but are entirely necessary for our survival.


This is an ode to the overwhelming feeling of love

greatly exacerbated by a pharmaceutical delight

whereupon connections with other humans

become both incredibly appealing and oddly magnetic

for a few electric hours.

The oxygenating satisfaction felt

the instance just after the small talk architecture masks

fall to the floor

and right before we put them back on.


This is an ode to the minutes before the amphetamine crash

where the world still doesn't make sense

but we briefly don't mind

because a few fleeting moments of energy and purpose

in this otherwise detestable confine of reality

are all you can really ask for

as you complete the assignments

then step outside

to smoke yet another cigarette (they're absolutely wonderful on Adderall try it some time it'll **** you slowly but then again what won't?)

only to witness our Sun

breeding fire clouds in the east

illuminating the Western Abyss into purple-gold spectral oblivion

and in consequence therefore

between puffs of a necessary cigarette

you grin to yourself in quiet victory.


This is an ode to misaligned priorities

to those who when walking to everimportant final examinations

think not of the curriculum beaten into their skulls

but take careful measure to step on every crack on the sidewalk

who stare not towards the future

but to the beautiful reflection reflecting back from the broken mirrors

that are the weary days and weary ways

of this curious existence.

To those when stepping into the absurd spotlight of Society

unapologetically proclaim:


"Though I must play your game,

you will never win."

While I don't suffer, or suffer from
Normal, eurocentrism, northern malaise,
Nor, academia, a blood disease,
I do mind manners in which doings
And not doings are done or aren't,
As it brings life and light to them,
Or it doesn't, for those most attached
To living or dying are most closely death.

This while acid rain from your closed eye
And an acre of rainforest falls each second.
Thus Earth's tears bleed for all you see is gray.
As machinations of travailing winds,
Miraging, veil, mirror narcissistic nihlistic
False-ego as self, do "..we(e),.." evince to be?
A republican chides, "put another poet
On the barbie", his idea of conservation.

Prump has had his exec. branch criminally:
Edit the official video and script of his
Helsinki news conference where tutin was asked,
"Did you help prump become president and did you
Have your gov't do the same", with tutin's answers,
"Yes I did, yes, I did..." + premeditatedly separate
Latino families at the border to torture them,
Dictate that "if they want to see their kids again
They have to sign away their rights and leave".

He just said, "don't believe what you hear, see",
Almost a quote from Orwell's '1984', in which
Is written, "this dictate of the gov't was most
Important of all, don't believe what your ears
Hear or your eyes see".  Since altright universe
Invaders were installed in the Blackhouse we've
Known things will only get worse, what other
Reason could his "military parade in 11-18" be for
Except military rule, will the American daymare end?

At the defense proposal
I was convinced
I would make it through
The proposal in my hand,
Months of preparation,
mentally, physically, loaded brain...
Well prepared I was for this judgement day
A little over confident, perhaps....

In the life of a Phd candidate
This is the true battle of Academia
Whether you'd be at the top
or you would be shot dead
The honorable Panels will decide...

The moment you utter a sentence or two..
Continuous attacks from the left and right
endlessly..... till you have your head
buried in the ground
Again you wake up and strike again
This is your war....
Defense is war.. the war of life
the moment of truth
the battle of a doctorate student everywhere

Research Objectives, Research Questions,
The Signification of research
and the Implication, the contribution of this study
SO WHAT?
One by one was being detailed, scrutinized and questioned

Dear panels,please be kind
Was patiently coping with your brutal  attacks
Head held low, head held high...
Nearly had a stroke,
But I refused to die...

Thank you dear panels,
my courteous smile for you...
I'd be back,
You'd see me again,
When I counter attack....

I never really understood
Slam poetry
There was a man, a mic, and a spot light
There were words put on paper and words said
There was an eb and flow and there was this rhythm
Everyone seemed to speak the same
Getting faster getting slower
Getting higher getting lower
And there were profound words whispered over coffee cups
Obscuring the chocolate drizzled over latte’s foam
It seemed odd and foreign
Until I became a slam poet
After all I think it’s how they say
You never know a man until you walk a mile in his shoes
But it’s because I used to look at those words they said and
Over analyzed them
Over scrutinized them
I filed them
Color coded them
Cross reference and proof read them
1+1 had to equal 2 but with slam
It equaled like eight
And I could double check again and again
I couldn’t get 1+1 to equal two

But it was because at that time I was a straight A student
Reading seven books at one time
And doing thinks like science fair projects for fun
Because I had realize,
even without knowing I had
That if I was up to the rims of my glasses with books and papers
I couldn’t see my life around me
I paid less attention to the dishes I had to clean if I had equations running through my mind
I never saw how much dad drank if I was reading and writing
I took all those gold stars and straight A’s and plastered them over the cracks in my life
I joined everything I could
I did choir
I did drama
I was the editor of the year book
I did extra credit and went overboard on home work
I made my projects with blood, sweat, and tears
And my academics were my life...
But soon the time came that I got a B

And it didn’t fit quite as cleanly over the hole in my roof I used it to patch
And I didn’t shine bright enough to block out the darkness
And I began to see
A simple column of letters
Two letters
6 A’s and one B
If put it under a microscope it would be made out of the same black ink spatter on pulverized and pressed trees
It would still bleed the same if I dripped water on it
But it was different
Darker it seemed
And at night it didn’t lull me to sleep as well as
An A
It was only 80%
Not my usual hundred and with
less zeroes it couldn’t block out the
sound of my surroundings as well an A could
I couldn’t wrap myself in it and hide
I couldn’t click my heals and have it take me to a happy place
No
It was a B

And I plastered my report cards over my cracked old windows
But there was now a hole where my B would have been

Light leaked in through there
Light that shown on my house
Casting a shadow down on the floor
And the gold star and sticker coated family looked fine standing before me
But the shadow silhouettes were of scary people
Hurt people

And I never saw it all along because a smiley face with bright purple letters saying thing like
“GOOD JOB!”
“GREAT WORK!”
“EXELLENCE!”
Had been neatly peeled from perfect tests
And as gently as it was lifted it was placed onto my family’s faces
The stickers stuck because of their tears
The tears that no longer existed
once hidden by a sticker
I then began to see that the light from outside could show me the world
I then went and stripped my wall and windows
Of reports cards, essays, and projects
I shut off my computer with power points of greatness
Flipping slide
after slide
    after slide

I then opened my windows let air and light flood into my room
And it showed me things
Beautiful things

But then the light flooded into the rest of my house
The breeze became a draft and invaded the rooms
Illuminating the ugliness and hurt

And I tried to shut that window
I tried to glue back up the papers
I tried to sow back together ripped up gold stars

But I was not fast enough
Me
like Pandora
tried closing that box again

What was done…
Was done

It was too late
I saw it all, if only briefly
And now that room full of academic tokens of my achievement
Seemed darker
Even with the windows open
It was darker
Light shown in
A dusky twilight
At noon
And my heart beat faster
My breath quickened
My scream scratched at my throat
Trying to get out but not finding a foot hold
It just clawed and kicked
And on an intake of breath that scream lost its hold
And fell back down my throat
Landing in the pit of my stomach

I then walked out of my room and into my house and looked at my family
I saw the ugly stickers on their face
And peeled them off
Without care and in a haste
I was frantic
And desperate
And afraid
Under those paper adhesive masks
I didn’t recognize the faces
And now I was in a house full of family I had never gotten to know and I was afraid
Not like a scary movie
Not like a dark basement
More like being on a stranded island
Watching a cell phone with service
Get carried away by a seagull

I then looked to see the panic mirrored
In my “families” faces and didn’t find it

I then walked back to my room
And cried myself to sleep
In the dusky twilight
At noon

And when I awoke I found a composition notebook
And a pencil…

My dad was on Omaha Beach but he
didn’t talk much about it so now
I’m going to take the rest of the day
to tell you all that he didn’t much talk about
we broke the Enigma code yeah we did
you can always tell a real veteran by
his thousand-yard stare, yessir, I know stuff
we kicked the Germans’ butts but he didn’t talk
much about it if not for us the French
would be speaking German yeah man yeah
when I was in graduate school but he
didn’t talk much about it we saved the world
when I was in graduate school when I
saw Patton those liberals in academia
he had this thousand-yard stare them snowflakes
wouldn’t hit Omaha Beach now they’d be browning
their pants when I was in graduate school
but he didn’t talk much about it yeah
that M-1 was the best battle implement
ever devised I got me one and boy
it’s got some serious stopping power yessir
I just love to go out to the range and pop some caps
with that bad boy the French are cheese-eating
surrender monkeys we can’t depend on the Italians
but he didn’t talk much about it when I
was in graduate school thousand-yard stare
my dad was there he didn’t talk much about it
here is a youtube about it if only
those snowflakes would watch Patton they’d learn something
left-wing academia he didn’t talk much about it
when I was in graduate school yeah man
I seen it on Band of Brothers liberal elites
Macron Macron Macron first front second front
‘cause I know stuff I got a whole liberry
but he didn’t talk much about it if not
for us yeah you’d all be speaking German
we saved France’s **** when DeGaulle told us
he wanted all American soldiers out of France
we asked him if that included the thousands
of American soldiers in French cemeteries
and that sure shut him up ha ha ha
bet you never heard that before and then
there was these old veterans at the airport
and this Frenchy asked them for their passports
and this old man had to look for his
and this Frenchy asked this veteran if he
had been in France before and this veteran
said he had and then this Frenchy he said
then you know you need to have your passport
ready and this here old veteran said that he
was at Normandy and there wasn’t no Frenchies
to give it to and you could hear a pin drop
ha ha I bet you never heard that one before
When I was in graduate school when I
was on my gap year but he didn’t talk much about it
snowflake liberal elites in academia
I love me my AK-47 that son
spits out some serious lead but he didn’t
talk much about it…


Me? Like, I had this deferment, my feet,
but I know all about it ‘cause I watch John Wayne
and my dad was in it so I guess he ought to know
and he was in a real war; you were only in
like you know them A-rabs and stuff…

When Robots ruled And “The Guardian” went into liquidation
It will be a strange quiet world when robots take over
there will be no middle-class the ranting of the eggheads
in the Guardian will cease their utterings will be quaint.
At the time when robots were perfected a pill emerged on
the market  made women and men infertile until they
wanted to start a family, alas, it was irreversible and it only
Takes a generation. The poor was working for the robots
picking up trash such as screws, the streets were empty
and cars were obsolete.
Some robots that had received too much learning wrote
Books to each other – as they did now- and had literary
reviews, but since each book sounded like another down
to the ****** “,” it fell out of vogue, so much academia
and no one to buy their books. At the same time as it was
discovered by the human workers that when a friendly
robot accepted a glass of beer it made a summersault, froze
and became a piece of junk leaking oil.
The fight back began the robots had not been programmed
To tolerate Alcohol, the Achilles heel, and the workers were
Jubilant waved flags
No longer should robots- any robots with mechanical learning
whether university or not- to rule over them.

Formal education,
  requires a fence

With borders to confine,
  and logic intense

Three letters that matter,
  the I, S, and M

Each school suffixed over,
  its member’s defend

Realism, Rationalism,
  Idealism all…

Each name its own failing,
  as verity calls
  
True thought has no class
  or Academie named

It stands on its own,
  the truth its sole claim

With knowledge in conflict,
  the days turn to night

Academia’s lantern
  —burned out in the fight

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)

I am the first born millennial grown in the digital garden from transplantation.

The data stream flows along with my bloodlines,

Divided, interspersed, like a lava lamp of my own identification.

A bloodline that once worked the fields, and now works the fields of existence,

A bloodline that made its pilgrimage to new land in order to satiate the body,

has now grown to satiate inquiries within the self.

I reflect upon those occasions where I have been told:

“why do you care about the state of affairs for them, you are not of them, you do not act like them

so

you can’t be one of them”

and I clench my tongue, forgive them father, they know not of what they speak”

“Perdonalos padre, no saben nada de que dicen”

The climate of academia is both inviting and yet marking, I feel connected to both intertwined

bloodlines, and markedly separate in a way neither will ever know

“mijo, él esta ******, no dice nada que él no entiende”

But I understand, my name, my appearance, my lineage, they all mark a separation of that cultural

heritage, a combination, a divider,

that lava lamp burns hot from the up down theatrics of where identity will lie

I am the new millennial

Expect us.

You don't know
What a genius I am
Pontificating stuffed shirt
At the head of the classroom
With your precious red ink
And credentialed soul
Do you bleed as I do?
Do you dream in words
So painfully beautiful
You marvel at belonging to them?
You don't know
Who I am or will be
Call it egotism or delusion
But behind this meek acceptance
Of your measures and jibes
My pride roils like lava
For once, I will not speak my mind
I must show you instead
And show you, I shall

My dream of academia
Is an idealized one
Mr. Chips and the Paper Chase
Classes of five hundred
In lecture halls the size of stadiums
Students focused
Totally absorbed
Hands flying skyward
With thoughts, questions
And answers
Always thinking
Always searching
Always seeking the challenge
Digesting facts and adding knowledge
Connecting dots from places obscure
Yet always looking for hidden meanings
Layers and levels and subtexts
That clarifies cognition
And opens the portal
Of the enigma unknown

“It really sickens me that you can’t take this life straight,” she said.

Her eyes were afire with a pink halo of hatred that smote her compassion. She reached for her coat and wrenched the cheap motel room door open. It made a small dull thud as it hit the brittle plaster wall. (I hoped my deposit would cover the damage.)

She was one surreal moment’s breath away from leaving me there for good.

“You’re a lonely old man because you’re a selfish old *******,” she said.

She disappeared down the walkway like some direful wraith caught in the night wind. The curt sound of her red highheeled shoes clicking the worn concrete. The inexplicable proof of her existence ferried away in a sea of incandescent tail lights that shown from the highway.  

Maybe she was right. Maybe I can’t take this life straight and never hope to. And, maybe I am selfish. But, I’m only selfish because I’m so **** lonely all the time. That’s the ***** of it. Life is a never-ending toilet bowl flush of selfishness, drunkenness, *****, and utter loneliness.

It took me too many years to figure out that the problem wasn’t her, or even with other people for that matter, it was with me.

It’s only when we figure ourselves out that we realize that we’ve been doing a lot of things wrong with our lives. Listening to the wrong voices in our heads. Taking the wrong advice from strangers. Avoiding the admonitions of those who really love you. These things happen all the time. None of us has the answers. I don’t know anything.

In fact, after all the years I spent searching for meaning in academia perusing dusty libraries and old bookstores for that gem of knowledge, I can tell you definitively that only ignorance is bliss. That it’s even true when it comes to dating. The less you think you know the better you are.

I guess this is where the train stops for me. Time to get off. Try something else. Take to the woods and grow a manly neck-beard like Thoreau did in Walden. Adhere to the early American philosophy of rugged individualism and all that. Too soon would I realize that life isn’t about solitude, or a separation from others; rather it’s about the connections we make. Solid connections.

The hedonistic Epicurus tells us to live a life of pleasure through the temperance of desire, and warns us not to seek what is inappropriate for us mortals, but to enjoy our mortal needs.

I do not know if Epicurus ever found a mate, a friendship, or even a partner to share his most intimate thoughts with besides his raucous audience, but I do know he died in isolation away from society. I’ve never been a hedonist. I’m far too traditional for all that.

My sordid love life is more akin to Ovid’s Metamorphoses and the tragic story of Echo and Narcissus.

I’ve been Narcissus for too many years to count and what’s worse I was in oblivion. For too long have I been unto myself. Admiring only myself. The time has come to choose. Either die like Narcissus or live and love with Écho.

I’d like to walk in the sunlight, drink from the cool springs, and with a Shakespearian passion bask in it’s eternal glow and live inside the warm,  but ever ethereal, love of another’s heart.

To love another with such Shakespearian passion would lead me to realize that the only thing my love can save is myself. And, all the time this duality would haunt me—to unequivocally know that without the tenderness of Echo in one’s life there is only the vain Narcissus.

For now you know the duality, that is also the tragedy, of this man. Let that echo in your ears and see if it does not ring with the truth of all men.

i never bought the whole dark academia thing.
sure, ****** and drugs and *** are torrid and dark when you're from a rich family,
when you've never woken up to the news of your childhood best friend being shot to death,
when you haven't seen your family and friends fall into the seductive cesspool of opioid addiction,
when half of your class was pregnant by the time senior year rolled around.
the academic upper class thinks what working class kids go through is sexier when the backdrop of the overdose is chandeliers and silk,
instead of a small town parking lot at 3am.
my aesthetic reality of academia is scholarships, it's leather jackets and nicotine addictions
it's having the only fifteen-year-old car in the campus parking lot and hoping to find a plug before the first week of classes.
it's not sleeping between work and class and partying. it's being the only one whose dad isn't buddies with the guy giving me an internship.
it's lonely. it's the crippling loneliness of not understanding upper class social cues,
it's reading crime and punishment in the slivers of time between work and work and class and more work
and emphasizing with raskalnikov so much it makes your teeth ache.
it's coughing up blood.
it's having health insurance for the first time in college and still not using it.
it's drowning, it's fighting, it's violent and heroic and painful and
never knowing
if you'll actually
make it.

Let the springtime follies find their place,
And every admin find his clarion call.
Faculty and staff find hiding space;
The dice are cast and heads must fall.

The changing of the guard makes haste;
Outside the trickling melt is slow.
Quickened blood and whitened face...
Colleagues lost.... We wonder who will go.

House cleaning goes with spring, I guess;
We tend to move those articles of ease,
Ignoring those who have the power to oppress...
Whose absence might bring summer on the breeze.

Adorable Angelina
Accepted Anchoring
At Academia,

Acute Angelina
Achieved Anchoring
Award And
Amazed Abundantly,

Angel Angelina
Always Added
Active Authoritative,

Awesome Angelina
Achieved Anchoring
Ambitions Avidly.

Fathima Ruhee

Lonely words on paper sing
Black ink sways to and fro
I staple the sheets to hand them in
At nine o’clock tomorrow

Lonely words on paper sing
Praises of a higher kind, although
These fall off their papery wings
Down they spiral, down they go

And hell it burns these wondrous things
Lonely words on paper lie
So for their errors, for their sins
Consumed by flame, their praises die

Writing is a gesture that ties my pleasure
As people walk in and out after a search
For the luminescent touch of knowledge
And the manipulation they wear dares
To become the only monster they treasure
Myriads of erudition and contemplations
Of the human mind, of the human kind
Is it not the wisdom bestowed by academia?
The biased subjective assessments
The reduced objective indoctrination
The social constructions of the reality itself
Is it not the wisdom bestowed by academia?
Such a relative weighted in apollonian seams  
That makes doctors to treat ailments
That makes a judge to rule a deluded justice
That makes a teacher drill a curriculum
Is it not the wisdom bestowed by academia?
Which make us question creation
Which reduces the metaphysics to nothing
Which validates the seen and not unseen
They offered us schools, those glass rules
That brings scholars to warm the benches
Such cruel rues, after years of toil
And there is neither guarantee for jobs
Such a robbery, a dare of mere mockery
So watch those children, as they wear bags
And trek to school everyday, another dystopia
So watch those children, paraded and uniformed
And as their eyes are matted with a bright future
The reality of the future they hold is contrary
For loans will bear the apex of their ribcage
For jobs will become a rare commodity
Artificial robots and self-driven cars
Automated rackets and self-serving checkouts
The obsolete conquest of human labor
Shall time be the only resource we bear?
It’s eventual but ever so inevitable

Marcuse! Marcuse! Where the **** are you?
He moved to California and all he could do was argue.
Instead of gratitude through platitudes and assimilation,
He sought to change the west with his social trepidation.
A change is coming, from West to East
As society embraces that Germans beast.
"You're a ****** if I say so, an idiot racist with a scapegoat."
The only fun he ever had was raging in his raincoat.
The man was ungrateful and stole our academia.
Now all schools teach is his prepackaged mass anemia.
Purging true thought, cursing the whole lot while he's at it.
Burning loose crops, as each kids churning an addict.
Marcuse! Marcuse! where the **** are you?
Marcuse! Marcuse! How the **** could you?

Covered feet on black clicking the time of walking stride
The fume of frozen gas sticking to my throat
The late winter leaves having stuck to guttered sidelines
Their huddled swaddled backs burdened with the soft shell of academia
I missed this place
As much as it is a sign of failure it also holds triumph

Where I found my mind when I thought the world
Was defined by a god long dead
That I was lost in a sea of faces
Who prayed, believed and spread faith
Like a soothing blanket
Their thoughts where not troubled
They didn't not question
They had hope
As false as I believed it to be

Even now as I watch them
Flocking to bus stop shelter
How they hold a happiness beneath their chilled skin
Glowing with some assurance I feel I'll never have
But I'm pushing for that feeling
That  place to belong
Somewhere between down to earth and too consumed with my study
But not quite there enough to fall into that group
That speaks academics but knows when to let go

But I can't let go
When it is a matter to the existence of even having a soul
Why do others not feel this need to know what constitutes their own being
Why do I scream out silently to persons whom I had not hoped to know
For we all know that faces on the web are less real than those we see
Everyday
Every moment waiting for that moment they would reach out and cure the ache of loss

They slow the footfall pavement
When passing the stop
Hearing the lively chatter
The silly matters that don't haunt an old soul not looking trouble
As if their frequency vibrates on a different level
Fm to my Am
Where the genuine character of my self turns back on itself
And I become the shy
Confused not knowing how to approach them
So instead of humiliate I walk by
Singing my oldies and rhyming my rhyme

There's this guy who constantly gives me grief online
as if I need a reminder that I am not funny or smart
that I am incapable of posting any story without his remark
as if he should impart and bestow all of social media
with his divine and seraphic academia:
what is with that?

He posts comments about how illiterate my poetry is
how it doesn't follow the rules; the do-nots and the do's
pontificates how its not properly punctuated
as if I should give up altogether and just shine shoes
and forget trying to construct sentences
just wander in the carousel of nebula's
eternally seeking the tentacle of enemas:
what is with that?

This guy enjoys winding me up like a persistent hobby
the reverent devilment of sadistic entitlement
pushing my head under water for a digital baptism
that I should thank him for his rhetoric enlightenment
as if he was blessed with a correspondence talisman:
what is with that?

This isn't even a poem.
I am letting off steam like an overused kettle
fed up of his mortar forever rammed in my pestle
the temples are raging and my brain is just draining
to explode on cue on the next digital heckle
the cracked and broken vessel
into a vengeful steam-driven projectile:
what is with that?

This, < here > , is my only escape
and creative cathartic vent
I'll post this lament
with the stench of discontent
and tag his name and then just wait
for his feverish malcontent
that I should dare to
prevent his God-like dissent:

memo to self
to a digital antagonist
and his verbose verbal cyst
and the keyboard of twists
when you push
sometimes you get
a big shove back
so don't be surprised
by my riposte
and this poetic attack.

I took a semester of college
the words of the professor hung limp
like dead fish on the river bank
for everything I was glad to learn
there were ten ******* credit lectures
and I never felt smarter
only more tired
and exacerbated at the world
I didn't gain life lessons
or wisdom
but I did drink and smoke a lot
so as a warning
make sure that college
is the right choice for you
and not just
a monetary drain
on the pragmatic western spirit

Mix hormones, sprouting hair, and teenage angst  in melting ***

Add 2 cups of Varsity Sports

Blend in at least 3 leadership positions

Sprinkle AP & Honors classes liberally

Acquire obscure talent such as playing a Theremin

Add long-term anxiety disease

Brag constantly about how you helped Jakito, a small African child, on a mission trip

Drain all traces of possible love connection

Substitute sleep for academia

Bring stress to boil

Add spoonful of “legacy”

Separately mix “White Guilt” with a cup of diversity (Native American if available)

Marinate in SAT classes

Spread 2300mg of SAT on top

Shake Well

Ice decoratively with essays about Jakito

Most batches must be rejected

i never intended to write poetry within a framework for the purpose oration, or too keen for it to be memorised; in the latter instance i know what puts people off poetry: the schooled induced need for memorisation, as if each poem were a national anthem; that's at a basic level, on the more advanced level people are put off poetry because the analysis of poetry, the transaction of but a few words into entire pages of essayist epics, the need to identify poetic tools, and admire does poets who are conscious of applying them puts people off, hence they easily grasp and turn to journalism of the daily news, to be easily duped and perhaps informed; it's harder to be duped by poetry, the tarantula venom in poetry works both ways: so too the poet amazed by an incomprehensibility due to the spontaneity and, something akin to lithium reacting in water: froth boom splash sizzle pop!*

i.

a ****** reader of philosophy books
will realise the hardship of the endeavour,
such books are more for thinking
after than talking a book reading club
to talk about them, in any casual conversation,
a whole philosophy book becomes
a single sentence that's memorable,
and the dropping of the philosopher's name,
nothing more, only because so few people
tackle the subject matter to try and speak
about it after, unless they're in academia
and instead of casually talking about it,
extract what's necessary and popular and
simply teach it - so unless you're paid to read
the material, it's a rather cold world out there
for talk of philosophy over a pint of beer
or a cup of coffee; and why did i start reading
these books? world got complicated, couldn't
escape reality with fiction, had to add to it,
plus it was a welcome change from reading
chemistry.

ii.

this is what i find strange in relation to poetry
and fiction narratives - with poetry you simply
can't get a sense of achievement as you do with
fiction - there simply isn't a sense of achievement
after having read a book of poetry, not in the same
way as there's a sense of achievement after having
read something beastly like joyce's ulysses:
it's the way it's packaged - it's denseness, it's need
for ramble ramble dabble dabble: the more depth
a narrator's consciousness has, apparently the more
critically encapsulating thumbs up too - compare
that to poetry and you see poetry as a form of
pure narration, not contaminated by plot or characters;
plus as franz kafka said: they didn't do two things
i asked of them: a. they didn't burn my work like i
asked, and b. they didn't do as i asked about font size,
it's tiny! any intelligent reader will realise that they
could lose their eyesight reading my works! i said
BIGGER FONT! and compare that to bukowski being
considered a "prolific" writer where his chapters are
knee high and his font is MASSIVE
so poetry is gentler on the eye - it s p  r  e   a    d     s,
cuts short, doesn't bother packaging to be a best-seller,
but it also doesn't do what i mentioned previously,
there's no sense of achievement after completing a poem,
because most poems are actually completed by readers
rather than discarded at some point...
and that's where dis-satisfaction creeps in with reading
prose: you just have to finish them - because i find
with fictive prose that there's no satisfaction i can immediately
find in poetry, the bird spreads his wings and isn't
a curled up hedgehog, or snail, or tortoise -
you need to finish these books to get what's intended
a feeling of achievement, the only satisfaction from
prose is when the last word is read, the book is shut,
is put back onto the shelf, and you look at it and admire
yourself with the thought: gosh jolly good, i've read that.

tidal waves

starting from the bottom,
    a life time
                     ago, inside backstabbers feeling the aftermath.
raising in anger

                  the sky above, gone so long.
lifted to

a journey of endless time, skies as dark as,
a blackened out knight.

a thief, not realising the fight,
                                                  that you daily gave flight.

academia loses me, swamping my left side,
my brain is crawling.

a right sided force to be reckoned with,
a release from the monotony of one
                                                           two
                                                             ­    three, safety in numbers.

war of the world ensues, it's a game of thrones.

red versus blue, black versus white,
knowing I always saw,
the creativity in,
                            me.

© Sia Jane