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  • Latest slam poem. Fictional.

    I swore it was just one of those in-between gigs -
    a nice fiscal pick-me-up between my English B.A.
    and my philosophy post-grad.
    But there's no demand for nattering Nietzscheans, it seems,
    so here I remain,
    making martyrs of the brats whose hall passes I deny,
    and confiscating gum from the ones smarter than me.

    In their skinny jeans and gangsta pants
    those kids are brewing the next sexual revolution.
    The boys - proto-Guevaras -
    with middle fingers erected stiff,
    fucking authority in the absence of any girl bold enough.
    And the girls -
    their bodies are still miraculous accidents,
    still without seams dividing the end of childhood
    from the beginning of self-hatred.
    Each incipient breast,
    not yet freighted with politics,
    is blameless as the forehead of a Zen monk.

    For all the catcalls and mash notes
    and terroristic exclusion campaigns:
    those breasts are still pointy
    and those fingers: all the boys
    can actually get up.

    They're playing at adulthood -
    no, that's not fair.
    They are working at adulthood,
    and that is more than I myself can say,
    prizing education though I wasted my own
    and thumbing my nose at troublemakers
    while I drink my own self sane.

    Their excuses are mine -
    no, better than mine.
    "Teacher dear, I am busy
    pioneering this clusterfuck that is adolescence.
    Please forgive me if my homework gets lost
    somewhere between not-quite-wrecking-Dad's-car
    and the thrill of a first orgasm."

    Half-grown but fully alive, they
    are striving, and I
    am facing my own obsolescence.
    Maybe that's why they never meet my eyes:
    in them they see themselves
    only much more so.
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