Always adjusting your eyeglasses, scratching your chin and nose,
Sweating through cotton bandanas, which hold back your greasy locks,
“Keeping your head from exploding”— that spellbinding, probing-box,
Eyes tilted up, seeking “pure light and goodness” through literature.
Down on Earth, waving your pen, like a self-propelled missile, at
“Prior to,” “future plans,” all with the hope though to elevate
Students. The language, they honor, and peers’ hearts, they penetrate.
“Every iota” I’d scrape up to be your disciple. But
All of your classes are filled, that is, filled with the mourning and
Anger for you, as that probing-box finally wiggled loose,
Cut off from students and lovers by blows from a hanging noose,
Leaving me waiting for only the spirit of Dave. Yet in
Making my pilgrimage, seeking your haunting ground
Here, DFW I truly hope will be found.
Sitting across from me, floating in 206 Crookshank, the
Lure’s not to have intellectual mingling of humans, but
Rather so that I can bask in a Legend that glows.