this is called School

I

natives in uproar-
children chopped the chosen ones.
neverending republics.

II

anti-drug bullshit
no one’s really listening to
the sexist jock teacher.

III

the spice of a Cajun
master and his protege
enlightening us, his sacks of paper.

IV

clicks of blunted fingertips
drown the lectures of the old
new mother

V

Idiocy reigns.

VI

somnolent, anticipating two more beeps
(they’re not really bells)
Thoreau watches from afar
Pound apologizing to simpering aesthetic Whitman

VII

fleeting moments
in the mind of a genius with ADHD;
time to go home again.

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