poets diversity college

  John Shinn & I are going to start a college

the ad will feature actors of indeterminate race- 

  headshots in high contrast puce lighting

saying the name of the college

  in various intonations

"poets. diversity. college."

"poet's diversity college."
   etc.

  John Shinn & Molly Stoddard, famed photographer & artist, respectively, know the challenge of finding a college that works with your needs.

  "Every student who attends pdc receives a laptop computer and a wheelchair, if needed, to keep, if they graduate, ABSOLUTELY FREE. Not sure which path is right for you? At poets diversity college, you will learn that everyone is a poet. Just ask yourself the question: how poem am I?"

we're pretty big on diversity, here. there are wheelchair ramps on every entrance

there will be clubs to join for every race, sexual orientation, religion & creed

oh, and speaking of religion!

try checking out pdc's sister school, poet's diversity bible college

because you can be a biblebanger & a poet, too

just ask history

no

wait, 

be a part of history

in the making. 

all the wheelchairs have a built in laptop table

so you can poem 

from the comfort

of your sleek new ride.

the only for-profit poetry college in America

  & don't forget the promises you'll make & keep

    & the free laptop & wheelchair you'll get

I heard Kyle Crawford just got his MFA, and his driver's license

  so he'll be teaching there, for sure

TOday

Luckily I got something new at christmastime, a new dress with dragonfly print & it hasn't come off since, can't. When you go to bed dressed you wake up so. Easily, with layered tights & socks kicked off beneath the soiled pink wool & soiled down & soiled 500-thread-counts. Never to sleep without someone in the proximity, but keeping a dog as a wall between he & me. Everymorning waking up before dawn, yawning wondering, whose fingers are these? whose knee haphazardly pushed in the crook? 

The colors of my hands, royal blue chips, the copper, puce, cadet blue. The cardigan accused of being 'mustard' when mustard just isn't olive. The forest green. I crocheted a shoelace; they thought I was out of it. The neon baby stuff I have around me, the notion that honey in my espresso is what's for me. I am learning to devour a little. An omelet here, a slice of green pepper/jalapeno there. The cans all aligned on my perfect big table. I want to write about the internet, because it is finally immanent. I think that could be somehow even boringer than this all.

you're so reasonable & I'm so maudlin

I'm a model. I moved to New York City to walk down the sidewalks in towering alexander mcqueens and nylons ripped at the knees. I'm so modeling right now, it's insane. EVEN under the thunderstorms, here in the city, right next to the piers where the concerts glow at night, and the summer-stench crawls from beneath chinatown drains, with the women whispering from staircases, the escapes from fires don't pull down, that never seem to work. The women here are talking bored about child support & doctor's bills, and I am wearing too much copper so rains like these move my skin off, they patina my bones and veins. But since I am so modelin' right now, I am all ribs and clavicles, and my jutting hip on which a trouser-waist sits hangs like a hanger, as I am. I'm a model, and I moved to New York City to stumble down the streets in the earlymorning dark, after salons in my prada pumps. I'm sooooo modeling, but then there is you & you are so able to reason. You aren't even here in New York City because you couldn't exist here, because the beach touches the asphalt and the flowers are spare and wispy, and my hair never ever tries to grow here because only the molds and bugs and beauties of the undergrowth underbenches underground can grow, and my one face melts into nothing with the splay of the city, the stupid subway stench in identical nostrils, and we all evaporate simultaneously. You can't be here, because no one is here, and you are so real, so reasonable. Those days (these, of summer here) are entire worlds, are lifetimes and the end never darkens, just turns to puce & salmons & body-odor vermilions, and the sun rises unobtrusively and casual is the steam from the jamaica bay fog. A man in a yellow convertible comes to me, hawaiaan shirted, and I begin to fall back into the walk I do.