There we were, my coffee cup and I
secluded in the corner booth
where flights of new realities,
my own created children, rose and soared
and readily transmogrified, touched down
and died according to my will.
I loved them all.
They were my fleet of consciousness
and altogether temporal,
yet in their frailty could darken houselights,
raise their stage to hide the universe
and for the nonce assume totality.
A single wisp of thought came through
and it was no surprise to be aware
that the professor with his pipe,
tweed coat and frowzy hair
now sat across and looking at me
quizically, but not disposed
to answer any questions
I was eager to propose, though I
had read his latest book, and knew
his vast research could lead me
down the path I wished to go.
For the moment I could merely know
he was my august puppet, not my key
to magic chests of insight... that he shared
the wisdom of the academes
that I once listened to,
and who would only point the way.
My cup was empty; I snapped back
and saw the room return, and it was time
to kill him off in tenderness. "You know"
he said, as he began to fade,
"I cannot help but go out wondering,
what kind of God are you?"
~
That big, elusive doctorate degree,
pretty much like an emperor's decree;
a kind of fetish that academes require,
sort of survival kit one must acquire;
within the realm of the university,
part of the myth of tenured security;
its twin is the rule: "publish or perish,"
a choice most faculty hate to cherish;
and yet they churn out books with little rest,
paperwork enough to clear a rain forest!
Pretty much like an emperor's
decree,
that big, elusive doctorate
degree,
sort of survival kit one must
acquire,
a kind of fetish that academes
require,
part of the myth of tenured
security
within the realm of the
university,
its twin is the rule: publish
or perish,
a choice most faculty hate
to cherish,
and yet they churn out books
with little rest,
paperwork enough to clear
a rain forest !
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