Bentham Under Glass: A Poem
In an effort to preserve my utility
and the happiness
of each and every dying cell
I decided to stay,
pass hermetically-sealed wisdom
instead of having my atoms scatter
dissipate and disappear.
But I’m a laughing stock.
Co-eds with pierced nostrils and emerald hair
sniff maliciously
at my buckled shoes and stockings.
Bandits
barely old enough to shave
make off with my head.
Faculty snicker
as I’m propped up at meetings
marked present,
but forced to abstain from voting.
Had I the ability
or the foresight
to unstitch my fingers
from the worn knees of my britches,
I would use them to count
to calculate, if possible
the best way
to bring the greatest humiliation
to the greatest number.