"You have 2 things: A Dream, and a Gig"

Graffitios scuttle from the rubble
on beetle's legs.
Each brick a fingerprint,
or a tea leaf portending
our loss of innocence.

I've never squatted in fields,
nor banked on hollowness
or the way the mind reels.
Tried to hold a level hand,
broadcast some silver lining
in this catastrophe.
Knowing this single moment is the last
that may be asked of me.



This second round of college is much more to my liking, despite the lack of social stimulus and hang-overs. It's 90% talking, verbally or electronically, and apparently on these topics I'm quite verbose. A professor has stopped calling on me (my hand shoots up at every question), a classmate sent me a note ("I just want to comment on your responses to everything so far this semester. I think you do a fantastic job of reading between the lines and the meanings of the essays and certain parts. You are very affluent(?) and knowledgeable when it comes to writing."). Juxtapose this with my scholarship two years ago: showing up surreal, keeping a lid on the poems pressing at my scalp, rushing out the door to struggle and spit over dastardly math problems. This is how it should have been all along.

Likewise, I've discovered that my university values their English department. Making strides to become the great literary institution of the Intermountain West (this piece of land between the Cascades and the Rockies). We have some professors of significance (though I won't be in their classes until the fall at the earliest)

I am, however, beginning to see how my job may interfere with this whole thing. Aside from the obvious protraction of my tenure here (I've come to peace with this, moving slowly allows me to absorb), the yuppie calendar conflicts with 2:00pm writing workshops with heads of the department. The sporadic travel means every registered credit may be the roll of the dice. My benevolent and irreproachable colleagues will likely raise eyebrows the next time I register for classes beginning with ENGL. I try my best there, and I've done well. My slightest twinge of pride tempered by the fact that I daydream about escape. Crawling into the ventilation system while ostensibly moving my bowels. Quick jaunts to Taco Bell that become literal runs for the Mexican border. Rappelling from the roof on extension cords or ties. I just hope that after a couple years the whole thing doesn't assimilate me. Everyone I meet subconsciously warns me with their eyes. . .