Academia

31 December 2018

https://poems.culturing.net/2018/12/academia/

These old metaphysicians
have not reckoned with Bob Dylan
or the rest of rock and roll,

but make love to pure abstraction
in the heat of musty bookshelves.

What is it to be?

Still their queasy deity
impugns all souls of freedom,
‘til they dream not of escape.

Those who have been through it
never quite think straight again.

Open up, it’s me.

Ah, profoundest nonsense,
most inebriating charm!
which empowers all corruption,
doing simple folk harm.

Take the path of flesh and bone,
if it still lies before you.

I must stay to point the way,
but wish that I could join you.