The Fall


Ah! To give myself to fresh young faces, all

turned on to handsome me whos born to teach


I think: shes here, the Muse, were close, my speech

is fancy free.

The epithet professor hardly fits

when youre so loose;

equations, symbols even flow, like bits

of Mother Goose.

Let uptight baldheads stumble over text

to yawning hall,

to empty seats, to puzzled and perplexed,

and start a bra

but what?

You say Im in the same field as he who

goes from class to lab to work on

quasi-phrastic blufreds in the effect

of zeta rays on lugrium excited states,

and works on weapons systems twice a month?

But I thought the world was made of atoms

with academic freedom!

It does not change with one cut out.

You say I think too much?

Just follow the mob at faculty meetings

and dont worry?

No, no, no, say I: human kind

has borne much reality, and will still more;

I will not look away.

The worlds connected; now I understand

why the day I let them vote

on whether homework counts for grades,

they looked at me: you weird or something?

Alienation is comfort

to fifteen-credit dexedrine employment seekers.

They stand in line at semesters end

to have their foreheads stamped:

prime and choice, or oversize, irregular.

(Whose table does he grace

that asked if X meant any mass or some specific one?

Who takes her off the rack

that popped gum bubbles as I answered?)

In USA you buy or sell;

I ply my wares like blufred baldhead.

Oh god, Confucius, Einstein, Buddha, Freud; I bleed!



(early to mid 1980s)                                               


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