Academic Life

In the bustling corridor, under the glare of fluorescent, the quotes are worn anchors on warm wood. I finish a paragraph, crossword puzzles of ideas. Literature? In this fluorescent sky, no more than a homework we check off: identity, form, legitimacy. I down a coffee, the stomach remembers a last decade empty of punctuation. Back to my desk, I arrange these books like fragile roofs over dreams, take out the pen as one would a less dull knife. Here, every phrase is a small suicide attempt.

I am the belt that conveys delight the soft digestion of ink into honey sugar baby me, press my eyes closed and get me to listen