An English Literature Student: To His Own Beloved Self.
To his Own Beloved Self An English Literature Student Dedicates These Lines Eleven.
Heavy as only the alarm can be.
“Render unto Pilot what is Pilot’s, to Croft what is Croft’s.”
Another early lecture.
Where shall I hide my hangover?
Where is my liar?
If only I were
small
as the great Koan –
I’d stand up on the SU’s squared top
and bring it to turn with me without end.
If only I were
poor!
As a Business student!
What’s money to the soul?
Just devil’s shit.
All the shit of corporations couldn’t feed the revolutionary herd of my essays.
If only I were
quiet
as a demonstration,
I would hear my poems screaming
that no one is reading them.
Eleven past one.
Wake up from this soporific mumbling.
By what gods was I conceived-
so critical and so useless?