joe wenderoth

 

ACADEMIA

 

To pimp the fine young cadence

of the dying gasp’s demented urge

to sentence

and to dumb back the ecstasies

that press up from, well, NOTHING—

this is our tiny calling,

our bungled ancientness.

 

 

ADVICE TO THE DISSERTATOR

 

Quit the brilliant dream plot and stand on knives

until all the god-costumes have been lost

and hang in museums.

Exercise, then, upon the museum grounds,

knowing more or less what hangs inside

and why.