It

didn’t

take

my dissertation partner long

to learn

he had signed on

with a madman.

Darryl, was a black communist

and I was a white witch doctor.

“These are sensitive times,” he said. “You have to be careful what you say.”

He believed,

in what was silencing him.

He didn’t know

that long ago

I decided my doctorate degree

was a poetic challenge—not something to be taken seriously.

After 9 years of university, 1 more

seemed superfluous. What could they teach me in 1 more year?

The answers weren’t there…

and the kings and queens of those supposed answers

were tyrants.

The whole world was a dictatorship

run by dicks and vaginas

but I had to find-out for myself.

My dissertation partner needed that piece of paper

and I suspected

I needed nothing,

but I didn’t know that,

until I graduated.