melania trump,
that slovenian flower,
bloomed in the night like
a plastic rose. in
the back of my garden, real
roses send out their
warm, genuine scents,
an olfactory backdrop
for the syllabi
i'm prepping for fall.
now that we know for sure that
the center never
holds, that truth never
does will out, that plastic lives
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matter – uber and
alles -- what matters
more, the fine print on cheating
or how i cover
my ass when i catch
that plagiarist? god, i hate
the pedant i have
become, pedantic
creature writing metallic
scripture into these
syllabi, scripting
course legalities for mere
self-preservation,
serving up slices
of conduct code on platters
of base rectitude.
my eye twitches. of
all the things i thought i would
someday teach, the cold
art of the deal was
never on my radar. in
this summer of lies
we have learned what lies
at the heart of discourse: one's
own beliefs. it's tough
enough believing
in the need for evidence;
teaching that, now, seems
a lost cause. and now
in my garden, i sit with
my laptop and write
what my students won't
read or heed or value, the
words my job requires
me to include, my
own voice muted to protect
my academic
assets. my summer
is nearly spent, my spirit
barely renewed for
the unbearable
onslaught of ignorance dressed
in students' clothes, those
called "clients" in a
recent and chilling memo,
a lousy augur
on a mid-august
day. oh, man, i just want to
breathe, to savor the
summer's last breaths of
decency. everything's in
bloom: the bee balm and
tickseed, the black-eyed
susans and coneflower, some
daylilies, all the
herbs. days like this, when
even the hummingbirds laze
in the record heat
(which in no way proves
climate change, because belief
trumps science and truth
is so elite), and
the squirrels straddle the arms
of the oaks, and the
dragonflies offer
distraction – skimming the bird
bath, rippling the
water, bathing in
the light, their wings creating
the perfect mantra
for summer's end – the
only thing i want to do
is be. there is a
hole in the sky, a
rendering of things rendered.
the tangible is
mutable, the real
no longer concrete, and now
instead of the hope
of fall semester –
that anticipation that
has kept me going
for years – i keep a
watch on my retirement
account, grateful that
i can count myself
among those with such options
maybe … maybe … some
day. some life. classrooms
full of true believers, fact-
devoid and caring
not one bit. the void
into which i pour myself
feels like a spiral.
the spiral arm of
the galaxy against the
blackness of space, the
perseids' flash, these
moments that science tells me
exist – real, by god,
or plagiarized by
fireflies? can evidence
save me, or will all
that unsavory
spinning sink the world, the scent
of the artifice
drowning the sweetness
of all that genuinely
blooms and seeding the
planet with plastic?