Posted: January 3, 2011 in Burn Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , ,

(*Author’s Note: This is an older burnpoem from Spring Semester of 2010.)

sends my thoughts

My Prof checks us in with his pink i-phone,
rolls up his yellow sweater,
so he doesn’t spill any english on
his nice new shirt, and
machine gun clicks through three slides.

Be merciful, say death.
To say “M.L.A.” is to chop off my drooping head
with an academic axe and
give an A+ to the stroke that murders my interest.

What is M.L.A.
but an academic paste,
forcibly mized into creativity to
thicken it;
make from fluid beauty
to molasses of Engl. 254

The sunset beckons beyond our first floor window.
A moderate April’s eve
turns to Eden’s Garden when shackled to night class.

The prof accidntally closes his pre-packaged lesson.
My heart leaps in my chest,
mind dissapating,
already feeling south wind’s carress;
tasting honeyed night air.
With Vlad’s own cruelty
he impales early dismissal.
“Oops, I accidentally closed it.”

I silently out-curse any sailor,
out-profane an interrupted Christian Bale.

he’s got my interest
even as ink jots poem to page.

Maybe this piece will one day be published.
I doubt it will find a place,
in the pages of an academic journal.

If through some miracle you find yourself reading
this poem,
and if you care to reference my work:
feel freely not to cite properly.

can kiss my

Hatch, Chris “254.”  Suck it M.L.A.  Burnpoetry Publishing, Apr. 15 2010.  Web.


  1. madhat says:

    I like your poetry a lot. Sometimes your words are so beautiful. This time I was truly struck (no pun intended) with the Vlad lines.

  2. Sue Tolles says:

    some how I missed this I liked it

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