Dear professor

I am writing to let you know

I am no longer moved to write for you.
Though you hold symbols with such precision
(How you do this, I will never know)
The cold calculus of your theory has sterilized them.
In your effort to legitimize yourself
You have delegitimized art itself,
Pushed us further away from its center.

I learned too late there was no ivory tower,
there were no steps to climb,
No secret magic formula to your inculcations.
No, I learned too late that your eruditions are tautologies
That your tautologies are totems
That your totems are stakes
And that your stakes are entrenched in white supremacy
(This is true of most things)

Dear professor,
I am writing to let you know
That your Kingdom of Knowledge is Konsidered an affront to us.
That your theory is teeming with bigotry
That your laurels are dying
That your skin is showing
That your novels don’t hold up
That despite all the history you can muster
You’re forced to confront that above all:
You are guilty of the most primal sin.

Your kingdom rests on the primitive accumulation of knowledge.
Your kingdom forms the greatest real estate of curriculum.
Your kingdom shakes on a foundation of exclusivity.
Your kingdom teeters in its veracity to maintain itself.
Your kingdom creates the very scholars that will come for you.
Your erudition has shown me something you did not intend:
The fragility of your kingdom is in its figure,
It’s fettered by its own form.

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