Poem: "The Intellectual"

((Note: Well, I love my friends. All of them. But... alas, this poem... needed to be vented out.))
From those eyes,
who is the Intellectual?
Newlywed, single, childless?
All the intelligence spread out on the page,
all the books read out of the mouth,
All the words from the mind upon the screen.

Who is he, or she, or who are they?
Witty, funny, biting,
Calm, laid-back,
enraged at only what deserves rage.
Older, younger,
with master's degrees?

Shelves stocked, stocked, stocked,
with the works of
Others like themselves,
role models,
books like lovers to them.

Who is the Intellectual?
Who is the man or woman who pretends to be one?
What qualifies an individual
as intellectual?

How do you, friend,
determine your intelligence,
in light of theirs?
How do we, friends,
turn off our judgment,
and listen?

Eight years, ten years,
apart,
we are,
from those who teach, and yet,
claims of knowing more.

Who is the intellectual?
Turn off
the judging heart and listen.
Forget the loss of our philosopher,
turn off your judging heart,
and learn.