A Proust-Like Existence Poem by Maxwell Ames

I woke up today at 9 am to my roomate
knocking at the front door. He had to drive his girlfriend
a few blocks to school and forgot his keys inside.
He apologized a few times and I crawled back into
my bed to lay in a vegetal state for a while.
I had a supreme amusement this morning with
random you tube videos and all things trash,
I didn't have homework pressing on my back just yet.
I got up out of bed at 11 am and found some clothes
laying on the floor which I brought down to the bathroom,
showered and such, and was ready to go by 11: 45.
I put in a snuff and walked to class arriving a few minutes late
to the disinterested looks of my professor and peers.
We glanced through Proust, and discussed in depth
each of the parts she excised from the book.
Matters of involuntary and voluntary memory,
the task which is
existing with constant incertitude,
a matter of a Proust like existence.
I, for the second time was recommended
to the passage of incertitude,
and I bled the latter while I reduced
what I had read.
A lesson in procrastination,
I pushed around five or ten facts of what I had read,
moving over all of them instead of the main point,
which I had underlined through my reading of the text,
but for some reason doubted it and covered more
of the text,
pleonasm, pleonasm.
It was in her response
to my reduction
that she reduced me
to the works of what
we had read.
Incertitude in action.