#?!%!! by Nicole Barth [4/21/11]

The Plague of first period lecturing

barreled on ad infinitum—like Protestant Fathers

in the years of 666.

Surely, we were experiencing the Hell

the Londoners believed in,

sitting in this puerile classroom

with the heater on full blast.

The—last thing I want to be learning about.

Great—is my need to stain this bleached dress of mine with true soil; with Missouri mud.

Fire—whoever decided to chain me to this chipping desk so early in the morning.

1666—reasons why I don't want to be here.

Pinched the nerve between my tolerance and sanity

as he did/could/will shove another unwanted dose

of syntax and single verb conjugations

down my throat.

Bleed the pen dry.

Punch the patience out of you.

Layer upon layer of typed brushstrokes:

Edit. Delete. Destroy.

Blank canvas: new document.

Zero willpower.

Train car epiphany.

I have orphaned the

hectically sketched optimism

—thriving within the tea-stained pages—

in the abyss of

blackboards and deadlines.

Strike two.