Milk on the Rocks

I was fighting sleep in my last class, Ways of Reading. Not only are Tuesdays and Thursdays my "long days," but the class itself is uninteresting to me. The only thing that keeps me from completely un-focusing my conscious thoughts are the occasional tales my professor shares about his young life growing up in Russia.

Otherwise, I am numb to the arguments of Aristotle and Plato, disembodied to the Birth of Tragedy and Marx.

So, instead of listening to my Russian-born professor discuss Nietzsche and the transformation of tragedy through culture, I wrote a two-minute free-write poem on today's issue of The Exponent. Nestled between comic strips and a trivia puzzle featuring pyramids, my "crappy handwriting" spilled out words, none of which make any sense.

However, for your entertainment (laugh all you want, please), I have posted it here, untouched.


Theses on Feuerbach
makes no mention of alcohol
no thought on the chopping block
of my jagged cranium.

Milk my jugular;
this is killing me.
I would rather be away--
away riding the Chicago el
or un aero on my way
to Gilligan's isle.

Forgive my incoherency.
Allow my inconsistency.
I am only a student,
a dilettante
itching, aching, frothing.

Damn, I'm tired--
your paintbrush of truth cannot
sustain me.
I would rather paint clouds
with your untruths than
pave campus
with variable clichès.

No thanks, Feuerbach.

Not today.
I prefer to discuss scoiattoli, biscuits, dinosaurs.
I am drunk on the inane.

I believe tragedy
is born from a Dionysian festival.
I believe in fairies.

So long, Feurbrach.
I will kick back and relax
and drink
milk on the rocks.

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