Stay Noided

I wrote the first draft of this poem a week or so ago, and read it on a broadcast to some fanfare. I was enthused enough with the premise and response to let the poem gestate, and spent this afternoon retooling it. I've grown fond of it.  

Poets of the 21st Century, All Our Heroes Were Paranoid       

The plexiglass covering my third eye

keeps ordering London Fogs. I suspect 

it has to do with plans for our remains -

the aspiration is to have my skeleton

hung in classrooms so when kids 

ask if I'm real the teacher can say 

"Yes." Proffer some sense into the

husky instructors, already so aware of 

death. Preter-occupational hazard.

What sort of sick nation

demands the masses shell out

for a vocation as transgressive as

high school English?  

An honest to ghost skeleton

not just in the labs but every

library and auditorium. 

That's my platform; horizon

of the pyramid. Kids being

mistaught how to read is 

the only thing keeping society 

together - Illuminati funds  

 

the strain of thought that frets 

& writes letters. What nature

of cyclopes would expose 

part of themselves daily,

dare to watch the throne

space? There's gotta be

a phantom casting

this opera somewhere,

nauseated at his own libretto.