THE PH.D. CANDIDATE CONTEMPLATES HIS FUTURE
Someday I’ll retire and do nothing but write.
Bot-pomes and theories of theories about books
(if we haven’t deep-sixed books by then)—
these shall be all my delight.
Between blog-poetics and shots of Patrón,
I’ll watch my laptop’s screenlight glint on the gilt
of my oak-framed diploma
and savor the aroma
of ganga wafting from my home office nook,
the smoke-curls swirling with the lilt
of something twelve-tone,
or Cage’s “Suite for Toy Piano.” The moon
shall incline her dirty cheek toward mine,
on Mike’s Fine Sardines I shall dine,
I shall blow into a blue bassoon
or cough in green ink,
the pleasures of tenure misting my eyes.
If the weather’s mild
I’ll stagger with my flask like a toddling child
out into the yard
and flop on my back under stars—
pulsing stars that whirl as I toast the poetry wars
whose blitzkriegs made my reputation.
And there I’ll snooze till sunrise
pinks my closed eyelids. I’ll smile and think:
Oh! What adventures we had in the avant-garde!