Among Genius

Pens scritch like broken clocks

ticking intermittently

throughout the barren shaft

that wheezes as the

wind stabs at its windows

dark hours slipping themselves

away into the ink

meant to beam up at zit-clogged, tired faces

in places

where light curdles and sours

and coffee becomes the only reprise

from a day of monotonous marks

scratches

dull headaches

dime eyes glinting dully

as false pretenses fade away

and I feel

intelligent

like my thumbs were meant

to slide under the seal

and my eyes were meant to be wide from

choking on a fetal insanity that

comes when you care too much

about proving that you can play their game

right up until the playing field becomes

a boiling mass of ribbons

a pin for you, a pin for you

a gold star on your frontal lobe

a trophy to hold in your blistered hands

to say I am

intelligent,

and I worship intelligence

and I will pay eighty-seven dollars

for a chance to join the cult

of intelligence

so we can all sit in an icy arena

on a wednesday morning

and vomit out our brains

secretly hating and loving

the person filling in bubbles beside us because they

could be proof

that we

are not good enough.