Theoretical frameworks,
Too many karmas,
Too many fetishes,
I am now apprentice to my colonizer,
Things unknowable coming to boil,
A desperate wickedness,
Things you cannot tell just by
Looking at the smile on C. Columbus.

Gently we waft,
In this grasping staging of academia,
Acid heads,
Blonde heads, Bald heads,
Black heads, Block heads,
Color heads,
The small clock on the university wall,
The gospel of a slow kill-joy agony,
A moth punishes self against the florescent,
This misery is generous.
There is bluestocking magic,
And white-fire professors,
And airborne Academese,
And la de da things.

In this dandy room,
I am tortured,
Drunken by bad luck.
Fenced in by airheads,
Blockheads, Baldheads,
Copperheads, Cokeheads.
A briny ocean of University heads.
Empty receptacles impregnated with textbook smarts,
And bluestocking magic,
And white fire,
And higher education,
And la de da things.

In this white room,
Slow match to freehold,
We will do anything for a reward,
Belittle the yellow-teethed yokels who will never know the
Vegetative stupor of academia.
Given the chance, every man is a god,
Tempered as he thumbs up,
A posse of yes-men,
And brown-nosers,
And cornfield rats,
A white collar militia,
Ready to jump in a mad frenzy,
Ready to kill for a pure belief.

And because hope keeps dead things twitching,
We are here for lucky breaks,
For that sweet gravy,
The standing O,
Onward to fringe benefits,
Onward to climb ladders and psychometric tests,
To do just like our fathers have done,
And mothers,
And graven images,
Such bottomless horse sense.

Things we do to kill death soundly,
If we must die fast,
Then we must do it in our Sunday best,
With the right sprinkle of irony,
So that when those holy fingers come blaming,
It will be said that we tried too,
A million tries,
We bloodied our knuckles,
Played the field,
Burnt red candles,
Any and all.