I celebrate myself, and hum myself,
And what I know true so you shall too,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

My nipples, every drop of my milk, form’d from my diligent study,
Born too of my incredible SAT scores,
From parents that gave me no advantage in the admissions process,
I, now twenty years old and with be-Juuled lungs,
Hoping not to cease till death
At twenty five.


The world of many that toil about,
The future senators valiant at (YCC) position stand,
The college counselors at duty too,
The journalists print daily their queried spams
At York and Chapel their utmost truth,
With studies directed the men grow studious,
Of ancient Greeks, they speak multitudinous,
And following them all the knights with their brooms
Who make the clean floors that polish bright minds,
A mirror for knowledge that thinks itself sourceless.

And these sweep inward to me, and I outward ignore them,
And such as I am, on the weft of my soul,
Of these and of more, I weave the song of myself.


I contain so much fucking shit,
I contain two medium size ball bearings,
A black ballpoint pen with no cap,
Approximately one and a half liters of stomach acid,
Two lucky pennies (1963 and 1985),
An unredeemed gift subscription to the New Yorker,
The right to remain silent and to an attorney,
Fourteen pounds of A positive blood,
Three tangerine White Claws,
An unrepentant yearning to live honestly as a green grape,
Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary F through H,
ACME #9 Machine and Lubrication Oil, two liters,
A spicy chicken chalupa from Taco Bell,
And more besides.


The past and present wilt—I have killed them, strung them,
And in them season the game-meat of the future.

Am I full of shit?
Very well then, I am full of shit.
(I am huge, I am so fucking fat.)

Who has written his fill? Who will soonest work on Wall Street?
Who comes to feed my ego?

I will be in your Google searches, I will sleep in your soul,
From Facebook status I came and like the Odysseus of Kentucky I go.
Look for me on the far side, on the second page,
Always I wait for you, just over the heathen’s horizon.

—J. Eldred