meeting blues

Keep talking about the false binaries between research in the candlelit recesses of the library and

the vibrancy of lived experience in academia and

the ways we might rehabilitate the way our students narrate their own lives toward endings that disrupt the systems into which they were born.

I could die happy listening to you speak.

Is this what normal people mean by “lust”?

Stop crossing your arms with your perfect posture making me want to stroke your cheek.

Stop touching my touch-starved shoulder every time we meet. It makes my heart race. There’s skin under that cardigan, don’t you know that?

Is that a birthmark at the top of your spine? Can I taste it?

I have to stop mirroring your body language but if I stop thinking about your hands I’ll stop controlling mine and I might just claw my face off.

Maybe if I make myself small you’ll overlook me or, worse,

say hello.

rlb 4.7.17


Mr. Sandman

No one needs Morpheus. Twitchy-eyed little bastard that he is, lithe-limb, smooth-talking sonofabitch. Where does he get off thinking he can play with checkers with my brain on a nightly basis throwing in chess pieces now and again? Some practical joke. I lay here listening to the gunshots across the valley missing the rain thinking there are fallow times but what if this is famine? what if the seeds of stories are all I am left with after the world has moved on? dormant and dried fossilized unable to grow in the bones of a future I never wanted? what if I go to sleep tonight and tomorrow I can no longer write just sit and sift through the dust on my pillow and remember.

rlb 4.25.17