I don't think I've learned enough yet

Situated in a room with a forest of blank white screens and minds busy with preconceived notions of always higher beings and archways of ecclesiastical gymnastic proclamations, I lamely palm my forehead. It seems feverish and calibrated, like it’s been sponging in too many hours amongst the sun’s elegant petals and gone dull with calor. But in the nosebleed starch air the sun has hidden away its tendrils and the boil in my eyes can only be explained by chopping into my fried membranes and seeing the pink belly to its uncooked meaty mass. A rich, decaying steam wafts off the top of the mazed gum-like clump. My brain smells like unopened packages of Christmas ornaments and the oil rising off the base spirals out like unwashable snowflake glitter from Frosty’s boots. Haven’t had enough of the raw snow peas with black ringed stains, haven’t unearthed the moldy pages of chivalrous sentiment too many times, until this mass pusses over with the filmy white froth of actualization, with steamy hoops of undeemable knowledge, with the glass, tweedy brass teeth of professorship. In the splintered spaghetti hairs of this mind, you’ll find in the very furs of its roots, the black sand specks of seeds in the center of warts. I have in this choke an adamant deficiency that demands regular feeding of hollowed chocolate bars and late night televisional theatrics. I have in this hold the forceful objections of a fool’s splinter, drooling over empty calorie trysts, thirteen hour naps, and the great, heated bran doorknocker of death anxiety. I’m going to disappear one day and you’re not going to know I was here and it won’t matter how many hands I’ve held and how much Chaucer I’ve perused and if I know the laws of transitivity and how many bottles I did or did not recycle. I’ve been left empty handed and minded and you’ve just come in as the day is setting to see me hunched over a stinking, infected mass, crawling in caviar beads, pawing at my vacant brow, boiling and seeping in the syrup that headaches make.




I don't feel well and I have a paper on Chaucer due soon that I haven't started.