In spare seconds between

lessons I got my free education

On the back of a bathroom stall

door.

Amongst the current affairs

(K.T. loves T.J.)

was political rhetoric

(Our President is gay)

And a crash-

course, med-school degree

(does it burn when you pee?!)

I perused amateur art

In black marker medium

(Carpay Deeum) and learned Lat-

in phon-et-i-ca-lly

I navigated the snarls of

syntax. Grammar lessons rendered in dying

pen blended with lipstick

pulled from a purse.

(I'm fucking sick of this fucked up shit, fucker)

A good curse word flexes to fit any form

Public Restroom 101 is a full

course in philosophy. You'll read,

“God is dead” And close your eyes

with blushing dread

At the anonymous poets you meet.

But the most oft repeated lesson

is in the lost art of geography.

So vital to know, that it

appears a round dozen times

in each stall.

Those three little words.

(I was here)