4190. NOTHING LIKE

NOTHING LIKE

There is nothing like bird speck on a pale horizon,

or some sickening painting of a scene of death -

all those king's horses and knights in armor bloodied

and dead on the field - to bring me home for a rest.

Refresher courses in bullshit art I do not need. The

medieval scholar, the Professor of Smirk, all those

Princeton guys with fat books for commercial heads,

they make me run off screaming. Who runs this

dog-like place, some other creature from the kennel?

I walk the trees towards Nassau Hall and wonder why :

where anyway am I headed and for what? All this old

colonial drivel covering lies and covering twisted tales.

Names of voracious men eating anything in their way,

that's all I hear. This was a Christian farm for mama's

boys when it all began, and not much else. What do

we have today? The same crap, but with an international

and guttural outreach so paltry as to lose all focus or

want. The cock crows every fifteen minutes around

here, and they ring the bells of decorum while the

ivy-lingered windows gape and grumble. The little

train in the distance, with all its turgid noises, just

comes and goes, over and over again, all day long.

Nothing like a regular plum to bring the doctor home.