Curriculum

Rigid; the required set, the tired

Petting of heels on Time’s carpet.

Birthed into a naiveté, dense.

A school of khakis and one single

Hall. One becomes a scab so

Immense that motility is miraculous.

A checkmark, a tally. Tightened

Skin brimming with the fat of fourth,

Of fifth, of sixth. Hand in hand with

An epiphany. 

Skip across the yawn that flanks

Each bank of a universe. Cry over

A calculator and mine, and mine,

Until the searing nougat of this earth

Is a slingshot adept at knocking

The metallic membrane from your lips.

Speak, speak cautiously. Step into

Sects and show them your teeth.

Give it a year, long enough to

Shred the gown, and then return to

Tunnels. Do not linger on “Parental.”

Bore, blind and blissful and hit the

Buried totem, the slender anti-amulet.

And permit it. Permit the whirlwind

To whisk you to cloud ceilings,

Fiery floors. Myriads of men, other

Mothers, other brothers, other

All. It will shift, like cheap plastic in

The pit. Let it twist. It will twist regardless.



© 2014 BENJAMIN SMITH