That's What She Said

Do you ever look at your professor and think: Can a person be so brilliant and ridiculous at the same time?
That's my creative writing teacher. He's a strange cross between Santa Clause and a truck driver. You would think they are totally opposite things, but in reality they have a lot in common. I mean, if you think about it, both have big bellies, facial hair of some sort, and they deliver goods to people.
God, I hope he doesn't read this by some strange coincidence.
But his character... is hard to assess simply. If you sat in on one of our "classes" you would probably think he's a college student trapped in an almost-sixty-year-old body. He even has a rap name, Two-Four. Don't really know what that's supposed to mean, but he wants us to call him that.
That's not even the half of it.
He calls me Fred because I had a guinea pig named Fred and he thought it was funny that I thought it was funny that it died.
Topics that come up in class range from frat parties to horse races, fish to antisemitism, and Korean BBQ to lap dances. Yeah, crazy.
That's as far as I'll go with explaining the gist of how these poetry workshops go. But if I had the power to name the course, I'd probably call it "Chillin' with Madonick 400". It's that insightful and outrageous at the same time.
Now that I've shared a bit of how the class goes, you can read the poem I wrote. It was an assignment that my professor came up with on the spot. But I'm not sure if it was just for fun, or if he had a real purpose to it.
In any case, he told us to write a "that's what she said" poem. I thought wow, I don't even know where to start. I don't even think I accomplished it the way he intended it to be. It's not really funny at all, but it's something I guess. What I really learned from this assignment, regardless of whether he intended it or not, was that the title makes a world of a difference.

That's What She Said

His heart was hammering against his chest
as the redundant heart beat of his ring tone
screamed at him.
But it was inaudible against
the ticking bomb tucked inside the cavity
of his ribcage.
And yet the throbbing lights from his phone
were blinding, as he stared at the screen
where a name was causing
the eruption
from inside the nucleus that was forming
the clear, glass beads rolling off his brow,
just passing his eyes.
At that moment
he turned to rest his gaze on a girl who
made an incision between his shoulders,
who would not stop swimming
in his arteries.
Whom he purchased secretly, when
the owner of the flashing name
was becoming a thick mist
stretched too thin
across the expanse between his thoughts
and emotions, disappearing in his iris
until she became just another
human being.
The jolt of his conscience made him
pick up the line that bound his reality
to his desires of wanting to sever
the label
that was pulling him back from this
thief that was sitting next to him, waiting,
cutting deeper inside, at the same time
smiling gently.
He pressed the inevitable consequence,
and the voice from the other side was
containing more than boiling anger,
a refined bitterness
and blanketed with wishful thinking
and misguided trust, she said,
"Are you coming?"