It makes me sick it just makes me sick

That they are always TEXTING or TALKING while I, fuck I am slid-

in

G: Do you see what I did there? The WORD became the DEED,

Off this split vinyl subway seat as we rattle north past identical bung-

a-los

Filled with TWO-POINT-FIVE children I will teach/not teach some day,

I will teach/not teach from the lecture that has been reduced to a sentence on

My phone I HATE YOU ALL

Them about split infinitives, “To boldly go” ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha and agreement but he always iterates (Foucault) that they are sexual

I let the other commuters carry me up the stairs of the temple like a mosh pit

And board the bus, hang like an ape from a tire

Tired, I review today’s work I will go through a couple of the essays called “Describe a Pencil to a Blind Man,”

The fairly good one (“It is long and many-sided, Sir”) and the one by the girl who

always smiles at me, the girl who shakes me like the mouth of this beast.

I am lowering my satchel as I remember that her legs are tawny, that her hair is tawny that her eyes are tiger-streaked and O

A seat opens and I jam my ass in.

Hurriedly I pinprick, in Braille, across the bottom of her page, “You could make a blind man see Paradise,”

And the tall, gray buildings; the guards in their towers, swing into sight.