NEWEST

IT MAKES ME SICK IT JUST MAKES ME SICK by Lynne Crosbie

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.

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