On Barthes

Ideas are fed to me.
Opinions that were supposedly thought out.
Concepts from theorists
Making sense of this world.
And now I must glean reason
From their (non)sense.

I muddle through.
Faking it
While self-aware youngsters prattle on
In comprehension.
My brain has been sleeping for
Ten years.

Comatose. Entertained by pop culture.
I am a derivative of idiocy-
A product of my culture.
Oh! intelligent brain of my youth,
I have let you fester in a
Quiet pocket of reality TV infection.

I am shocked awake by
Electrodes of thought.
Synapses connect,
Bulbs of deeply buried ideas
Light up the mushy grey.

Four weeks in
And there is hope.

8-31-10 & 9-21-10

this was written for my frustration about a French theorist from the 40s, Roland Barthes. Read his stuff, you'll see.