spring shivers aren’t because of blossoms

            it breezes year round

 

now clever lusting the all novel innocently

            that’s not sheepishly

 

lying and not busy later it itches less in the hustle

            numbed until you’ve waned

                        unless you forget

On the restroom floor
lay a female student’s paper,
marked in red ink
by a female professor,
which leads me to two questions:
1) Why was the professor grading in the bathroom?
2) Why was it in the men’s bathroom?
This is that paper’s story.

On a particle-board desk,
the paper lay, reposing
and basking in the brilliance
with which it had been imbued
by the creator, Andrea.
Exhilarating was the sensation
of being full of perfection,
full of this feeling; suddenly
pain shot through the paper,
pain in the form of red ink,
red ink marking, crossing out,
writing, as Ms. Brophy lived
out her sick power complex.
As soon as it had began, it
was over; the marking had
stopped and Ms. Brophy had left,
having marked only the first page.

Knowing it must protect the rest
of its leaves, the paper quickly
formulated a plan, determining the
ultimate act of defiance, fleeing
to the one place that neither Ms.
Brophy nor Andrea would find it.
With a shaken faith in the creator
that had turned it over to the
demented Ms. Brophy, the paper
slowly made its way to the men’s
restroom, secreting itself on the
floor of one of the stalls, in that
nasty place, behind the commode.
The nasty factor was extreme, but
the paper endured, determined to
not be marked on any more; first
began the germs, gnawing away and
infiltrating the paper’s structure;
next came the fumes of urine, bringing
up dry-heaves from the paper’s non-
existent bowels, and yet the paper
stayed firm. Finally, the paper was
assaulted by the worst, most foul
enemy of all: the smell of poo. The
assault was intense, but the paper
determined never to return to Ms. Brophy,
and on that bathroom floor, the paper died,
breathing in refuse but living free.

So many people make such a big deal
out of finally seeing themselves in print
and then they’re printed
and they think
the man
he likes me
but the truth is
you can spend your whole life
waiting for the man
or you can say
screw you the man
and get out there and make a difference
in this world
a difference that no one
will want to buy
or read
or care about
but even if the man saw you as his beloved
it wouldn’t change a thing
the sieve and the sand the awesomeness the book
screw you the man

Dr. Lanyon likes to call goose bumps incipient rigor,
I wonder what he means…

In—innumerable integers are indignant in
cip—principal because the reciprocal, participant,
ient—sentient goose bumps are resilient, lenient

Rig—and rigidly, rigorously rigged
or—according to an ordinary, ordinal ordinance.

It was funny
to watch the kid study,
as he rode
on his skateboard;

Funny indeed
as he ran
SMACK!!!
right into a tree.

can only be coincidences if the philosophies are expressed along with any tools or forms: the schemes can be done on purpose, but then the ideas can be seen as reflections can be floating in the darker outside.  i prefer la dulce to its specter.

am i bold enough?

            i remember in feelings

                        and trust most events

            i sleep willingly

                        and assume unmonitored accountability

 

the sun slapped me across the face an hour ago

            and i pled for more sleep:

every one and thing must have a turned head at some point

            and not even on my knees i wanted that point

 

the integrity of the universe is great

            as far as i can tell

                        and the difference isn’t to me, but over my head