I have lost eighteen; argument is blindness
to the outlines of Sunday evening escapades
illuminated by scattering polarization, unsettling amber,
I fail to design in Pearson’s thirteenth, 500 pages choke,
the dead dimensional artwork thinking it mimics
them, the labels quantified so numbly.
Unaware out casket infrastructure is not addition,
trapped beneath the bridge I calculate but never cross.
Flustered, we haven’t learnt dynamics yet.
Am I the modern age, spoiled virgin?
My insignia, a scarlet red report card,
stained violent rebellion on my white grown?
Innocence prevents the pitchforks no longer,
as Frankenstein is pushed into the basement.
They know what they think I am.
Filling my backpack with dogmatic importance
to counterbalance the weight of solitude.
My fabricated equilibrium.
They warn you, the bricks are hard,
that you’ve lived in cotton so far,
but there is no preparation
for its coyote hunger, the sick predator
mindlessly devouring the youth,
not bothering with sheep skin
once admission is mailed and tuition, drained.
Assignments masked as education
like hammers used as carving tools.
Enough to forget, easily, the love
that entranced your infant mind, you think.
But for once, the solution is wrong, you scribble ink
across number seven, forget marks,
four years is pittance corruption.