natives in uproar-
children chopped the chosen ones.
no one’s really listening to
the sexist jock teacher.
the spice of a Cajun
master and his protege
enlightening us, his sacks of paper.
clicks of blunted fingertips
drown the lectures of the old
somnolent, anticipating two more beeps
(they’re not really bells)
Thoreau watches from afar
Pound apologizing to simpering aesthetic Whitman
in the mind of a genius with ADHD;
time to go home again.