"Every poem requires a new kind of ignorance." - Chase Twichell

The other day I had the most trouble I've ever had focusing in class. This had nothing to do with the class itself, I think I just needed to sleep or run around or go to Montreal or something. In efforts to make myself pay attention I started writing lines about the men who were speaking. Then this happened:


There is a man here with a rat tail,
golden rimmed John Lennon glasses,
and pants that he grew out of a year ago.
His voice is deep like rivers in circuit.
I hear its vibrations bouncing in the corners
of the room, getting trapped and humming
behind the house plants and herbs under the window.
He’s speaking of Germany and people all over Europe,
“What a great experience, such a wonderful experience.”
He plays with his glasses case
while the bald man in front of him converses.
The bald man talks with his hands and eyes,
stubble decorating his cheek bones,
sometimes meeting his hands mid-sentence.
His knee is crossed over the other
and his fingers intertwine over them
when he finishes his speech.
There is a man dressed in greys
parallel to the bald man
who smiles when he knows
the answer to a question
he’s asked. His elbows are connected
by his fingertips, ready to spark up
his own discussion. He wears my father’s glasses,
black like his digital watch that doesn’t tick.