At the end of my philosophy
of language course, I met
for my faculty evaluation
and he said, “Well, this
class was clearly not for you.”
In my defense, I was just
depressed and analytical philosophy
literally hurt my brain.
Discouraged, I researched
the new up-and-coming
programs. I met with the
faculty for a poetry class
with promises of visiting
NYC if we were good.
The professor asked
about my reading history.
I could read my
brother-in-law pretty good.
He’s a terrible liar.
I can’t read any of
those machines in hospitals.
I have to take their word
for it. Like the time
I had an undescended testicle
and had to get an ultrasound
on my crotch.
The doctor squirted that blue,
cold jelly on my balls
and all I could think was
to not get a boner.
My life depended
on not getting a boner.
But the monitor had a
black and white closeup
of the inside of my ballsack
and I didn’t know
what the hell I was looking at.
“No, I mean consuming the canon.”
Well, I was belly up to
the bar once and this
old lady from a bachelorette
party sat down next to me.
She asked in a gravely
smoker voice, “Wanna
know the best part about
being old?”
I nodded.
Then she took an empty
beer bottle, lifted her head
and shoved it all the way
down her throat until
it disappeared.
Then she pulled it back out
and said,
“No gag reflex.”
So maybe not fully consuming
but pretty damn close.
He said I could attend the
next class and we could
go from there.
We ended up not
going from there.
Consuming the Canon
Ian Valor