in the summer of '05 i attended mason
i took a poetry class, because i needed practice
picking up poetic chicks in their element
however, i was not learning well
and so, still, i was getting blowjobs from the illiterate
but i digress

on one especially hot day
when the wind hunts the summer dress prey
i was sitting in that poetry shack (as i called it)
in a chair, in a circle, in the emptiness of twenty minutes early
i was chewing on a pencil, sipping on virgin gin'n'juice through a straw
"excuse me, alex, would you care to undress me with your eyes"
i turned my head and in a dazed surprise was greeted by a chimpanzee
"are you new?" i said, and she said: "no just a ghost of contemporary poetry"
but i digress

there was no monkey, really, it was just a girl
in a tight white shirt, with fake drag-queen curls
and for her i would leave my caring young wife
if only i had one, but i don't, because i only bond with insensitive sluts
and so i responded: "no, mam, but i hope you don't mind a gigantic..."
but she was already consumed in a breeze and so i gave up on the telepathic striptease
but again i digress

the classroom was crowding up, a closet homosexual stumbled over my desk
"alex, have you ever considered wearing tight leather pants"
"yes, michael, but as far as you getting me out of them: there is not a significant chance"
and so like a twenty five year old virgin trapped in a well
the sadness had struck him down next to me, into an empty chair with freshly abandoned gum
we were two star-crossed partners, two hookers in a midsummer night's dream in vietnam
but i digress

along with the 6'4" blue ape walked in a con-woman that follows me around
and acts, to a perfection, surprised (borderline angry) when I accuse her with a:
"victoria, why must we fight like we are lovers, why can't we just be lovers and pretend?"
and the blue ape threw me a look, but i was distracted by the communist fake:
"matthew" i screamed out "you never were a communist till i told you i was"
he shrugged, a middle class punk, trying to mix marxism, heroism, and cherry pie funk
but i digress

on crooked aged bones, the ape positioned himself in the room's center of mass,
lighting a pipe with a panty-twisting cynicism, growled at the smell of inexperience
"class, your teacher, mrs. dickinson, is out of town"
"dead, robbing banks, or just not around"
"and you" here he paused "have nothing to say"
"as poetry is nothing without a crippling pain"

a few students giggled as his eyes sank into his skull
those students he dragged into the middle, ripped off their arms,
bit into their chest, stomach, and neck, and chewed with a stillness of '45 tanks
"now, class, they will know, not to write from their heart, their mind, or their soul"
and i began clapping with a vigor of wolves
and the blue ape ignored it as if to say "not now, oh great pupil, not yet"

"jacky" i whispered "there are birds in the sky, hunters with boners and mcdonald fries"
"cruel young horses with nails in their thighs, and there's you, jacqueline, there's you"
her youthful passion gave strength to the ape's back as he dragged her
and raped her on top of the corpses of her bleeding classmates
i laughed with machine guns delivered along with human-packed crates
and the blue ape, of the same species that sleeps with my aunt, did not even give me a tip of his hat

time went on in this way, slicing out space, through the cold jungle prophet eating away
at the unfinished basements of innocent dreams, at the pathway from throat to the tongue through the teeth
leaving the poetry shack with a corpse mound, the ape, and myself
quiet, as is always the case, before late afternoon lunch