Written about a pretentious classmate. |
Poetry Slam Yeah, late night in a coffee shop, broke beatniks, bereted—black-clad— bemoaning the beauty bereft banality that is life. Mmm. There they sit, improvising their poetry. Sometimes free verse, sometimes the reverse. Oh they can make up rhymes in no time considering themselves…sublime as Longinus, in his most…philosophical mind. Mmm. Each one a coffee shop philosopher, bending over his mug to recite his Locke. Locked, yes, in an internal struggle— an internal and eternal struggle against the good and the evil of the universe, knowing that there is no universal, only the difference between extremes. Each one a junior Derrida, Derrida lite. The ninety-nine cent, tic-tac calorie chicken sandwich of philosophy. Perhaps with a diet coke. And maybe fries. What is that? A number two? Now, each individual adheres to his school without question— the glue of cookie cutter Cartesians, "I think therefore I am. I think." Slowly swallowing silver-tongued, yet soft-spoken speeches given centuries ago by the likes of Aristotle: men greater than they, these Hot-Topic philosophers are packaged for the faux-trendy Starbucks culture. |