This was a fabulous reception, though it was all foreign to me.
It was a little less offensive than I thought that it would be.
And the platitudes and drinks just kept on coming, unrelieved.
And their tones conveyed affection with a tinge of rivalry.
And the tenured tilt toward you, they make motions with their glass.
Like they're hundred year old parrots blurting curses from the past.
And their anecdotes and witticisms coated by the heat
in the slow sway of its shimmering viscosity, they read
Publish or perish, it's up to you.
In the corridors of power, through the Groves of Academe
there's a labyrinth of fingers scrabbling above the weeds.
And a whole English department is united by these things,
Publish or perish, it's up to you.
From the manicured lawns,
through the sound proof highway walls, they can't see
the slink of river light
and the torn scraps of cloud that sing to me.
Publish or perish, it's up to you.