you want to fuck all your
professors, but more than
anything you want the short
anything you want the short
philosophy adjunct, too angry
to ever get tenure, with his
slimmed shoulders lifting
up his head in a fuck-you to
gravity, melon-skull toppling
on his neck the way whole
basketballs spin on the tip
of a middle finger--you
of a middle finger--you
want him reciting
latin to you in the middle of sex, his
body soft and concave as a contact lens, bed
squeaking underneath you like
"e, e, e,
e pluribus unum"-- look, that's
the only latin you know and you might
have lifted it straight from the back of
a dollar bill but this is your daydream,
have lifted it straight from the back of
a dollar bill but this is your daydream,
okay, you pretend it's clever and
once-dropped from the mouth of virgil
if you want. mornings, you pepper names
of long-gone white men into your coffee
instead of gold leaf, wear skirts without
underwear to class (don't cross your legs):
if you want. mornings, you pepper names
of long-gone white men into your coffee
instead of gold leaf, wear skirts without
underwear to class (don't cross your legs):
dead languages are
your aphrodisiac
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