I have seen grandeur,
halfway through my daily
venti fair-trade blend,
its bold, sanguine nature
percolating through my liver.
I have trodden the white
linoleum aisles of doctorates,
attentively perused the black desktop graffiti
- Cal, do you want revolution? -
and heard talk of the corpus callosum,
metafunctions, and Manichean allegories.
I have further blurred the comma-spliced
words of Hume with 9:35 AM
lecture-induced drool, finally
stirring at the words tabula rasa -
it seems on these days
that the slate is indeed blank.
Et ben j'ai vu le boucher français,
le sang de son tablier
pu des verbes sans accents,
un bourdon anglais.
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