We’re in purgatory ‘til we purge our stories, right?
So, here, I’ma try my hand at Shakespeare.
After all, I was born already half way there.
So I begin.
And I began with my eyes open wide,
Stayed open through Yale on my near full ride.
You can call that assisted suicide
Cause in my time at Yale
I took in what I could but I did not inhale.
Yes, they refine your mind at this fine institution
but distract you from the fact they leave you spiritually stupid.
They teach you not just how but what to think,
and that’s that your sh*t don’t stink.
Yes, I’m from Bridgeport, but that Kool-Aid I will NOT drink.
Confusion trickles down from the Ivory Tower of Babel:
“Forget swingsets. Here, instead, we play with p-sets and Scrabble.”
Pedantic playgrounds groom children to believe themselves God
yet doom children to be spiritually robbed of their humanity,
their true divinity.
Intelligent and Eloquent but still Ignorant.
It’s a tragedy.
This was me.
I graduated, my mind blazin’
but my soul
But that refrain stayed playin’,
that refrain stayed slayin’
through all that section BS-in’
and second guessing—
that do or die question.
Why does this light brigade feel so heavy?
And Lord levy
My heart sends out strong signals but I get spotty reception.
Twenty-three years of testing
and only at this intersection
can I stand in my truth
and hold it self evident.
Take these high hopes
and negative slopes
y=mx+b still doesn’t answer: why?
Who am I next to be?
High, with the sun shining next to me?
Or doomed to die having had nobody
join me in my primal ecstacy?
Stated more explicilty:
I love life’s simplicity,
and like a child I want to play endlessly.
into the art
that saves me
from life’s hard parts
when the heart’s dark?
Some words from the wise
Travel light for all expeditions,
and nuclear fissions.
Time to fuse with the muse!
Zoom past the visible spectrum
with its reds and its blues
overused in our flags
and our bruises—
Newton’s Law of Conservation states a rolling stone gathers no moss
so lets go!
Oprah’s Law of Conversation states the best listener makes the best boss
so let’s go!
Do you think Waldo thought he was lost?
I want to cruise with Emerson!
Blaze through a trail with Emma’s Sun!
(I don’t mean to disrespect the cultured but
I ain’t got time to be a vulture and
pick apart the decomposing corpses of dead composers
my corpus callosum can’t help but connect opposing art forms
by free association!)