Class Dismissed

The German smacks the chalkboard with withering contempt,
shuffling papers for the holiday,
while outside everything is slate cold and black settles down
to pitch night when the children are let out of cages;
little monsters smoke and drop hints that violence
will begin to blossom like a cruel flower from the mouth of the dog that has just bit my leg.

(and we pressurize the hydrocephalic, and we pull the desk backward to reveal the heathen youth, possessed of madness, muttering to himself the falsehoods of the Trade, and somewhere, in an auditorium of the absurd, the Devil has reserved a seat to the right and left of him…)

Nothing is necessary no more. I hate this hell reserved for me, where cruelty waits on tip of female tounge as dirty fingers flick ash on the pavement. Where am I? How did I get to be here? in this callous world of so many hallways and classrooms, screaming out from the black void of regulation stomp, as I know I will never fit into the precise geometric angles of the diagram?

I can’t learn this language. it is cold and merciless and trapped in a frozen moment where rape gives way to yearning.

Tarzan in the undersea world of the animals. A dog with a bowl-like lip. Chickens clucking in the yard. Outside, a bird is screaming deceit.

Georgia

Red sunset swirls color of old orange flames as the car dives between the line.
Hostages to fortune cower in the backseat.
When will night fall?
Draining the dusty throat on broken glass bottle that the mop man picks up,
After stone cold negro trance mutters with broken lip savoir faire “Hey muthafucka, hey.”
Cleaning the muck of the floor and sliding the peppers down your throat,
and heat curls like an untamed cobra into your armpits,
And the darkness in here is broken by jukebox titterings and rumble of
old pinball games as we slide tables together for pool of food.
But outside. OUTSIDE. The psychopath leers into the peach sunset. Peach, peach, everything is peach. The sky is peach, the earth is peach, the dusty old eighteen wheel monster silhouetted against the rays of flame is peach. Where are we going, sliding over the pitted, cratered surface of this non-terrestrial world, and you tell me about hotels in outer space?
This mission is over.
All color has been drained to pink.
The heat is all we have left, and the sunset.