A Senior Design

I have attempted to put words to this many times.
many times tried, many times failed,
many times staring at a screen glaring
at me for my finger's inadequacies and my
mind's inabilities to satisfy the source, fill
the page with what it seeks, separate the
forest from the trees of this deceptive, deceptive
imagery floating precariously above me begging to be caught,
snatched like a ripe apple in its improperly labelled orchard.

I have taken on scarier things: death, depression, and
whatever lurks in the deep dark crevices of my mind.
I take
one look at you and
my muse excuses itself from the table and books it.
It says: I am not getting paid enough for this shit.
I say: you're getting paid?
It shakes its head and walks off.
I guess you are the final project of this class untaken,
the lecture without textbook and a professor with an accent
from the kingdom of babble, the land of gibberish,
the island of the incomprehensible,
residing in the sea of
"I simply do not know".
And I, eager student, want
the A+ in this class of vicious overachievers.
I do side work. I perform studies,
I conduct research. I have a focus group on
"whatever the hell it is you do with your time when I am not around".
They have inconclusive results.

I salvage these findings, put them in a blender and
hope to God "frappe" means something friendly.
The shriek of the whirling blades, as they jumble and mesh
whatever intimate details I can find stashed in my kitchen cabinet,
reminds me of the hopelessness of this practice.
Irrationality being the "doing of something over and
over again expecting a different result",
I guess I am the poster child for the
academic office's demand for an extended "drop" period.

I still want an A, though.