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werewolf
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the professor steps gingerly
between lines
and then coughs or plods
about at the podium
to turn a page.
"did society ever become so complacent
in knowing the difference
between signal and noise
or the similarities for that matter,
that it was novel to express them?"
and he's wearing a tweed jacket
like a book cover from the 70s.
even though it's not dusty,
you can tell it's outdated.
and i'm listening to my ipod
and a song has some singing
and languid tom-toms beaten.
it sounds like my heart.
and who was the author of that tweed
jacket? who was the author?
i mean what were they thinking?
i mean what were they thinking.
that author probably is dead.
"need we be reminded what silence is? are we not born into it?"
yes everyday i'm born into it
at 8 when i shuffle towards
your class to wait
while you stand glancing anonymously
at your papers.
but are we waiting?
reading all of the books for this class
is depressing.
reading borges and you think what
more is there to say?
how could i or anyone else
say it?
so then you think well maybe
he didn't say anything.
maybe nobody can. then he didn't
i didn't. and we're equals again.
democratic as blue air and green sky
as conquering and being conquered
as a sword and a love letter.
but wasn't that something he said?
how can you betray him
when he was only trying?
i feel a christ-guilt from my childhood.
i repeat the track with the tom-toms
and it does seem like a heartbeat.
maybe it is my heartbeat.
a doctor would disagree.
for one day my heart will stop,
but the tom-toms will go on.
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050902
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