With one foot step in the past and one finger print on the impending virtual grave -pulse

of the online edu-ma-cation respiratory/vascular-disfunctional system that is no doubt the future;

we neither advance nor decline, we simply wait to wait ‘n’ see; because nothing stinks like desperation–

Can you hold your breath in darkness? The future is not bright!

Patience itself is no virtue where pamphleteering prophets alone prevail;

our deaths will likely be from the thousand tiny emblematic paper cuts

of the brave new paperless -puter world of edu-ma-cation, virtually deployed

on the internets of the damned multiversal, peri-lingual altar of Polytechnicoloredcoded class materials…

The broadcast Methodists and the Latter Day mercurial huckster edu-ma-caterers are standing in shallow draft boats in

the estuaries of the culturally diffident ancient streams of consciousness; unblinkingly they haul-in their caches of

slimy, writhing impersonal names -stamped initialed, wrapped in the silken mid-morning camisoles and name-tagged

underwear of the culturally diverse denizen-elite of under-enveloped third world countries—and the other backwater

trailer parks of  Texarcanifornia….

…all in search of wonton pedigrees; post jocular dirty jokes of bathroom-stalled diplomas

each ever more illiterate, they post meaningless posthumous letters/heads

before and after their polysyllabic-hyphenated names; and glossed in diacritical acumen—the apocalyptic afterbirth of

the post-academic fright and flight; their credentials tarnished sterling but…

The Future is not bright.

The spare glints of light that are everywhere at some equidistant nadir resonating the equinox-eternal gloom

are not the sun are not the moon; but memory is palpable, the projectile vomiting of Lethe/Forgetfulness, who is

pulsating now with catenulate con-versions/vulsions/visions

that underscore and harbinger the metaphoric dancing, midnight, seething Diaspora

… of long forgotten poets, no longer dead; no longer breathing; no longer standing

with  their relatives; like Byron Shelley’s monstrous seeming memories of sun- bestraddle-shore … derivatives.  The

future is not bright. Academius  was shriven, scourged, buggered, ridiculed—died, embalmed and buried; and on the

third day

… they rolled away the giant rock—then rolled it back again to crush the silly remnants of his mutton chopped, and

gravy-addled head. They sold the rights to cable syndication’s Historisity -ists; mainlining, mainstream publicating,

blasphemous bloated mostly white, mostly masturbating, iconographers; mostly teeth and wigs, these corporate willy-

wagging types with Armani suits

…  and calendar-sunless watches, marking Roman Numeral encrusted time, as they endlessly excoriate and incriminate

each other in countless video depositions—

they sniff and slobber and variously- if- vaguely ejaculate their ABC’d declarations of ‘four days out of seven’ and all- in

–one, hundred forty characters or less—Twitter; Tweet; Shit! Repeat…. Hit Send… “You can even do it in your fucking

car….”

The Future is not Bright.

You @$$h0l3s!!

K Knox  ‘11