We're All Mad Here: (Photo #9) "Educate"


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Lecture Language

Body language is more than a cue, More than a wave of the hand or arms. It often speaks as the name begets, Inflicting pain or mouthing charm. It is the instructor telling her class, "I shouldn't work harder than you," While cupping her eyes At the lower lip of their lids. Nosing up. Staring down. Wearing down the academe Who would not dare to make a scene Because the son at home is hungry, And Momma needs to make more money. Baby boy can't milk the breast of Promise and degree for long. He wants the taste of stress and sweat As much as the next helpless child. Maybe that's why Toddlers would crawl through mazes like mice To come upon a few sweet treats Because they are sick of Momma's tired teet. But she will work harder than the voice across the room. The ode to seniority. The air of superiority Which reduces Momma to a sponging mind and pencil. Whose task for now Is looking up longingly at the security That hovers over the...
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When I Was Your Age

"Can you get off your damn computer at all? I left this morning and you were sitting there. I came back and you're sitting there. There's plenty to do around the house! When I was your age- " It's easy to be discounted, Easy to be cheapened by seniority. And only in the land of the free do the elderly lobby vociferously from the disgruntled old age home studio, where their families dropped them off like preschoolers, never to be seen again - Forced to play tag in a treehouse made of alzheimers, misplaced dollars, laminated floors, and steel canes. Yet youth is the time of emotions, the time our limbs stretch out in grotesque, asymmetrical ways, ears flapping in the wind, teeth falling from the sky, hair growing grass-roots style, with little fervor and less intelligible direction. "When I was your age" is supposed to imply that everyone has been a child once, but therein lies the flaw. As Plato's pal escapes the cave of shadows born ane...
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Undying

Let not the air you breathe be your guide, for fairest breathes are taken in suspended exasperation. Let not your eyes deceive you with fateful findings and such visual expressions of dull color that would render ones soul reaped. Let not your nose steal even a wisp of the scent of death, for the tendons of the fell creatures that envelope such corpses are full of hasty hunger. Let only your hands be your brace against the brisk winds of labor. Let only your hands hold steadfast the weight of your genius in its gloriously hefty stature. Lest you grow old and wither, your hands cannot unleash an imagination lesser than god. For god is a man with pencil in hand and a heart in his palm. For our deepest concupiscence lies wrapped in our tongues, begging with all remorseful greed to be unraveled and splayed upon the very grandeur of crafted sheet. To smell the scent of printed elixir, to beseech upon thee the vision of fattened ink, to breathe in the thickened vapor of insp...
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