The Camaraderie of Academia: Poetry

It’s always
a pleasure to see
The intellectuals converse,
Standing in lines
with arms folded
in solemn dictation,
hushed tones
as they speak
To each and pause to text
Their peers

They will say
how they
Relished the interaction
While loathing
these same peers
over papers written
with a footnote
of perfection
that outshines
their own
The camaraderie
of academia
means the gates
close to
new knowledge
not already
validated by
Who You Know.
The sum of all fears:
We wouldn’t want to get
Our fingers scorched,
and our lovers torched
In a trilogy
of random
that doesn’t mean
a blessed thing
Here we are,
Here we stand,
The locomotion
of an ocean
That has no depth
or rhyme or reason

The season
is the place
and the personage,
the style and the method
Just to keep on jiving
Through the next course
of bullshit:
Feel me?
I am sovereign here,
Indecorous in my attitude,
Gracious in my manner,
knowing much
and seeing all,
Within ruffles
that speak fluent French
though I know
the language not
I’ve had an
inferior type
of breeding,
Far away from
city streets slick
With cons and games

But I can sense
the grift and the lingo
that goes on
like so much
Mechanistic stew
If only politics
were disguised
with a muse
and pretty words,
Would it still smell
As sweet as the cesspool
That they sell us
day in and day out?
And now there is this urban chic,
This city prim and proper,
Urban sophistication
Glossing over the air of
Dispassionate gloom
I hold my poise,
Converse with everyone
while thinking
of what I do
in revelatory stations
That I never think to utter
And these
copious universes
Would surely go
unanswered and unheeded
if we were
little microbes stuck
In the milk
from the breast
of a Creation
we refuse
The Truth Hurts

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