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Poem

when he was younger
he jammed out on the guitar, bore a fro &
then graduated from brown---
following this, him & his hippie gal got married,
popped out a few rug-rats &
sooner than later he was at grad school,
then the ph.d & then
writing papers on meticulously fine-tuned
areas of literary theory
at the corner of where philosophy met with it in
a new postmodern paradise
free of the restrictions that modernism posed &
free of the comfort that it brought to those seeking
well-thought-out stories, 
bringing with it the death of the meta-narrative
as well as a thousand other aesthetic flip-flops, 
reversals & complete toss outs---
he sat in his little office at his little state university
teaching english courses &
weaving philosophy &
actually interesting works 
whenever he saw possible,
inspiring those who grew as bored as him with the everyday
mundane reality of the university &
in his spare time,
when all the students had gone &
he didn’t have to be home yet to do the family thing,
he labored at the pc 
trying to find a way to write automatically---
something that would surpass or at least impress
someone like william s. burroughs,
whose work he adored---
and with every few hours stuffed into a week
where he tried to focus on inventing some kind of
new writing,
he simultaneously forgot that with the meta-narrative 
went the origin of authorship,
as derrida himself declared &
so to this day 
the lone one sits in his little cage trying to break out
by writing with his spell check or
some other dreamt up attempt at 
carving a place amidst those that are studied by history,
unlike those that historically
study.

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