April showers fell unseasonably cold @ VaTech,
that morning, the
dripping blood of a forfeited soul with selfish motives.
Chronically late Buddinsky laureate had stepped
in, elbowed-up to center-stage- words louder than
action- self-anointed arbiter branding him
'unfit' for class- passive lynching- his
Alienation
unfashionable, not
-Sylvia shrilly blaming *pater-nothus*, nor
-Jezebel snapping hormonal on Angry Johnny, nor
-'the thunder rolled' or 'earl hadda' die' or wispy Nova
Scotia Sarah kissing
the breath
out of all of us, *Ismail
Ax*, wrong tattoo, a self-anointed martyr fighting all
Liberty, not just
that the Founders deemed Creator-endowed, yellow
monkey out of sync w/
n-word
ethics, not
pooping a midden on Whitey from an
ebony tower, not
even eligible for the Writing Cure, due
soon enough to
graduate to
the out-side world, sealed in artistic irrelevance &
lined up along the altar of
universal injustice
somewhere amid
global gas, sexual harassment, & snoring, way out-
side Prof. Nikki's
tolerance threshold (her catalogue
celebrating many
lives, saving
none) .
Cho’s literary legacy, that frightful pop & thick odor of unfriendly-
fire, cluttering
the wishful repose of a gun-free zone,
published by the Programmer (who misread domestic
violence into
doctrinaire terrorism) - verse-
less rhyme, sense-
less crime- funded
by the blood of Thirty-two Souls, plus one.
soon enough to graduate to the out-side world, sealed in artistic irrelevance & lined up along the altar of universal injustice somewhere among... tis the easy middle bit... that curdled yummy with this soul .... aroha.... PS can you plus 10 more for me...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Five million points from me. t x