Masculine Menagerie

Poetry, Societal Poetry

No thought. Instant hands shoot up. In one ear and out the other, incubating the words with thoughts of how fucking awesome their own voice is going to sound. What the hell did he say again? I missed it in my head.

We’re getting photocopies about what makes a good column to compensate. We’re gonna brush over texts and lose the meaning, get bored, and loll back into our fantasy lands of when we get the hell outta here.

Discourse turns into argument for the sake of escalating.
The trend of one-upping has already got me kicking.
Sparks across the long table full of darting eyes fill themselves balloon-like with entropy for the sake of Peacocking itself out to be the most magnificent.
This energy does nothing but provide heat, and I’m already toasty and running out of patience.

It’s not a competition for space. It’s not a fighting grounds to determine who knows the most.
(Which reward could be a ticket out of this class and a
Passing grade because further education would prove redundant
Please stop distracting the students trying to use their damn heads)

“Not that we’re going to start talking about politics.” She said, after discussing how (if) we were informed about international travel ban.
It’s a disgrace to remain apolitical with such topics.
We’re spending two hours of a day with our heads in the sand, rather than a wordpress or book. We’re a room full of creators mitigating ourselves to small talk and columnist biographies.

Creators are being shackled, self-undermining within
The narrow track of complacent thought.
It’s gonna get us the A otherwise, so
Ambition beyond that has got to be futile in the scope of what the University wants.
Job, means, complacency are screaming their shattered stainglass glares at me.
This isn’t what I want.

“I haven’t read the most of this article, but..” an interjection starts.
We’re all guilty of this, but that shouldn’t normalize something as heinous as becoming the helmsman of a conversation whose course you haven’t studied.

You. Will. Go. Off. Course.

“This is gonna turn into a jerky circle-game real quick.”

I can already see it unravelling.

Single-headed stream of consciousness conversation for the sake of occupying time.
Correction will be weaponized to fragile egos.
Three women, a vast minority in a space already limited. No space to talk, no space to move.

None have spoken but the few, myself included, who have propagated response after tired response.
The timidity imposed by this masculine menagerie is affecting even the professor in front of us.

I hope that the conversation is to be heard,
Spewing underinformed, guns-cocked garble turn to information entropy.
More heat, I’m getting steamed. Discourse, of course.

Please, God. Let the women speak.

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