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
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?)
I ply my wares like blufred baldhead.
Oh god, Confucius, Einstein, Buddha, Freud; I bleed!
(early to mid 1980s)
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