No class on lawn tonight.
Too dark for prolonged concentration.
Please set timer for last lesson.
Return all books with pages cleaned.
Marks will be given, then taken away.
Thought cannot be taught or bought.
Graduation occurs at sunrise.
Somewhere between the felt tip and the ballpoint,
waving as its flag a typewriter ribbon,
lies in wait the dreaded inky zone.
Where fingerprints are commonplace
and stamp pads are the norm.
Where the badge of honor is a broken pen in pocket.
Where the fountain pen is king
and the inkwell still defines a way of life.
Where no one except martyrs should wear white.
And where the battle cry is still indelible.
Imagine a box full of answers
falling off of the lap of your god,
spilling out on the ceiling of this world,
where we look up and see them as stars.
While we’re ever unsure of their meaning,
as they flicker and tease us at night,
we are sure they have something to tell us,
and we long for this cosmic insight.
We build rockets and planes to get closer.
We have astronauts floating in space.
And we’re sure that the magnified twinkling
would reflect, circumspect, our lord’s face.
The modern world creaks to a halt.
The sun, frozen, leans toward darkness.
Apocalypse, now a presumption, a former abstraction,
demands a reaction, and the people must vote it down.
Across the oceans, our enemies amass.
They must be placed in words and categories.
Survival is dependent on proper identification.
Secret police walk amongst us and good friends may be spies.
All laws are subject to change. Outlaws cannot prevail.
We are the wild west and time is our jail.
In the old saloon, marshals and sheriffs fight off doom.
The riderless horse on Main Street is just a burning Escalade.
We are quite behind in this existence.
Ninety-nil is grim beyond persistence.
We owe, we owe, and off we go to earn.
The answer’s tinder; just how much must burn.
Wood, bark, limb, park, vested vail and forest.
Cede your ground without a sound, let nature be your florist.
The rich will never care about the poorest.
And criminals are men but for the jurist.
We tree into eternity to leave.
Departure’s much too easy to believe.