To the Graduating Class

Typology: poem

Content:

An undelivered commencement address to the graduating class
at Indiana University in Bloomington, Indiana

by Martin Action

      Having have had once been much educated
      I have learned...

      My parents raised me good.
      Taught me what a good education
      can do for one's quality of life,
      quantity of bread,
      frequency of good sex, and the like.


      Ain't nuthin to it.

            Post-literate, that's where I'ze at.
            Can't spell for shit.
            Can't finish anything,
            But sure can plan out the whole campaign.
            Know how to fix my stereo, but don't.
            That's 'cause I'ze affected and effected.
            Infused with the hot chocolate morality
            Of the city and the times. 

      Whatcha gonna do when you get out?
      Go up to Naptown?
      Get a job as a clerk in a lawyer's office,
      as a programmer for the insurers of the car
      you can't afford, but have to buy.
      How 'bout the Silicon Valley?
      I hear it's real West out there.
      Or Istanbul, or New Orleans.
      where do you go after Bloomington:
      The Eternal City?

      I've seen sooooo many
      good heads,
      good eggs,
      laid to waste
      by the forced decision. 


      It's over Chucko.
      You can't go home,
      but you can't just go.

      It's over. 

Somehow

you
think
that
the
appeal of
this
studentine
ghetto
will
wear
down and
off
as
you
reach
predicted
maturity.

Maybe...

maybe not.

Cut off the soles of your shoes

climb a tree
and learn to play the flute.

Lounge by the shores, naked and care free.

Have late breakfasts at the Uptown.

Drink more. Smoke more. Plow fields.

Peter Pan was right.
Don't do it.
Don't grow up.
Don't leave.
You can stay here, deep in the ivory womb.
You could get a job as a painter,
or start another paper or something.
Maybe you can get that recording contract
and still live out on Smithville Rd.

      There's a Cassavettes flick
      wherein the protagonists muse on
      the best years of their lives --
      It was their College Days.
      If you're even half-way happy,
      chances are,
      this is as good as it's gonna get. 


Stay here.
Don't leave.
You could get a job dish washing at the Spoon.
Get back to your writing.
Buy that old beat-up all-metal electric guitar
and learn a few power chords.

      What more do you want
      for an adequate quality of life?

      You can live like a monarch here on
      six lousy bucks an hour.

      The secret to surviving is
      knowing what you don't need. 


And you need Bloomington.

It's in your blood,
coagulating your motivation
as it massages your soul.

      You know what will happen?
      The weekend will come
      and you will finally get a day off,
      you'll decide to see a movie
      'cause you got to do something.
      Got to consume something.
      And there will be only two movies worth seeing.
      One of them will be about college days.


Then you'll remember what I'm saying here.
You'll remember how you thought I was crazy.
How I was so conservative and infantile.
And how those were the best days of your life.

Review this poem...

Reviews:

September 16th, 2004

Why I Stay