a faculty member thinks I am too involved
In my own nostalgia. I say what nostalgia.
you mean black nostalgia. If I cannot recall the
land of my umbilical severance then there
was no navel to begin with.
when the memory finds the self tapered and
running out of space it goes around asking for
its name and praying for the yes of a right answer.
that’s not nostalgia. That’s a requiem.
how arrogant to assume that the source material
of a collective bleed could only be some misunder
-standing of placement. What do you mean? I
know where I am. These are the Americas. It is
2014. I know my name and why I’m not dead.
that is more than you can say for you. Knowing is
superior. Is infinite. To think nostalgic is to want for
something more beautiful than what sits dead at
your table. What we’d share tomorrow has starved
overnight. What we’d share tomorrow has already
left its stink in the bed.