There aren’t monsters under beds,
I think I can say that for sure;
There’s one in the bathroom
And it’s a toilet paper-vore:
Yesterday, I changed rolls,
Today, I’m changing roles;
It’s the third one this week
That’s just been devoured whole
So one and all,
Lo and behold:
Your poet’s stepped into
The investigator’s mould—
Is this a stroke of genius
By a next door neighbour bold,
Who has us in the palm of their hand,
And our rolls in their stranglehold?
Have I just lost all my sense
Of normal space and time?
Maybe all those tests are now
Eating this brain of mine
Or is this just a frantic
Effort on life’s part
To get this indoorsey CS kid
To finally trip down to Walmart?
Either way, one and all,
The joke’s growing old;
This is not the college story
I’d like twenty years hence told!
For the record, I’m not really indoorsey, I’m just cold. It’s 9 degrees outside and we’re on the lakefront. It has dramatic effects on a nice warm day’s efforts to keep you from freezing. It belittles the sun until it loses all motivation, and if that doesn’t ruin your day, you need to sign up for a CS degree.
And I really did change the toilet rolls yesterday, and they’re over today. Someone is eating toilet paper here, and this is not the sort of thing I imagined would make a Sherlock plot scene. “Mr. Holmes, we’ve been loo-ted!”
There’s a white waterfall over me Not a conspiracy theorist, but I think it’s whitewashing me Found a spot dead in the middle of the floor I’ve just begun and I can’t take it anymore There’s a sign with ten red cautions on the door Push me open, they silently implore
Grey lines race across grey carpets on the floor Oddly calming anathema to what’s in store For me, why can’t I see, it’s looming over me Was I just never tested for ADHD
Unemployed sociologist undercover See a girl run up and pounce on her lover He makes no move, his face is a cloud Just as I sit here, weaving my own shroud
What you need lies not beyond but on your table Under your nose, it’s a challenge, are you able When everyone’s calculated but I can’t do a thing Writing trashy poetry won’t save my math from a failing grade
I’m sitting with my math book in the library. It’s past midday. My midterm’s tomorrow. What am I doing with my life.
And shameless plugging about joining my lettuce appreciation frat.
That giving me freedom would become a problem
Was a perpetual issue that bugged my mum
At the very bare minimum,
She figured my floormates would hear a midnight strum
Or quite possibly the new tribal drums
That I would read about in the history library,
And enrol as the lead dramatist
In the science fiction drama with a plot twist;
That I’d turn minimalist
And live and die by the ice cream stick
And my vitamins be damned
And the meal plans a scam;
And my professors’d be in for an amusing shock
To see me stumble in asleep at nine o’ clock
If I ever made it on time, of course
An upside down map being my sole source
But so far, I’ve kept myself on form
And while I’m wondering if it’s the calm before the storm,
I’ve a most curious kind of bother:
I’m turning into my mother.
 A long, wonderfully written story. I may explain it someday, or simply allow you to enlighten yourself (albeit partially) with this here: embrace nirvana.
Full reveal: he couldn’t have hidden in the “angle of the tower” without his math degree. And without him, Reznikoff wouldn’t have been a legend.
 Another long story about a lettuce appreciation club my friend and I are going to start. Devil’s in the details out shortly. Stay tuned for future updates.