Mr Fin
thin
moustached

and grey suited
talked
of the Plague of London

in 1665
and people dying
and red crosses

on doors
and rats and ships
and BRING OUT

YOUR DEAD
being yelled
through

the narrow streets
we sat enthralled
taking in

the history lesson
Dennis drew a cross
on his palm

in red ink
(he had a job
to get that off

in recess)
and said
I bet he was there

old Fin
bet he was a kid
back then

it was almost
three hundred
years ago

I said
this is 1956
Dennis shrugged

his shoulders
and kept
to his theory

I watched the teacher
and how his hand
wrote so neatly

on the board
and drew a picture
of streets

with doors
with red crosses
and shadowy people

hanging round
Janice sat to my right
her eyes glued

to the board
as Mr Fin
wrote and drew

her chin
in the palm
of her thin hand

scribbling
in her exercise book
with her right hand

I liked her fair hair
the way it flowed
over her shoulders

like water
over rocks
the way her fingers

touched her cheek
as her palm
held the chin

another girl
sat next to her
some fat girl

with black hair
and a thin
faint moustache

and earrings
I liked Janice's
pink ear

showing through
a gap
in her hair

then Fin said
next time
we'll talk

of the Great Fire
of London
in 1666

Dennis stuck gum
under his desk
Janice closed her book

and gave me
her engaging  
young girl look.

Modest beauties
whose creamily dabbed
orange, pink
and
yellow blossoms
despite tender care
rendered
died this spring
a speckled lizard
lurks inside
their empty talavera ***
next to the cheap blue
sun umbrella
that blows over
with every breeze.

the  future  is  coming*

I'm often reminded of this when
the other students in my class
ask me what my major is.

“Liberal Studies,” I say.

The follow up question is always the same cookie-cutter inquiry.

                        “So you want to be a teacher?”

                                                      “No, not really” I say.

                                        At this juncture the person who is blandly     asking the questions begins to express
genuine interest in what I might do next
in the “real-world,”
spiked with a fear of the unknown.

“So what do you want to do then?”

I've come to realize that this is the point where most of my passing conversations with peers are brought to an abrupt end.

“I don't know.” I say.

And there it is, out in the open, lying on the floor-- the ******* future. I search their eyes and find panic,
                                                    then doubt,
                                                                ­ followed by pity.

I have officially shared too much information.
Figures. Honesty  creeps  people  out.

We part ways with, “Oh, that's great” or “I'll see you around!” and march forward to that inevitable, tantalizing ***** that is the future.

I've found that when I express a modicum
of trust in the world,
                                            it is often met with an alarming dread
                                           and concern for my prolonged well-being.

I am without a plan, so naturally-- there's a problem.


That if I don't have my calendar
              marked up through to the second coming of Christ,
                    at some point all of my limbs may simultaneously fall off.
Or I may simply cease to exist
           and all the joys of life will slip through my fingers
                                                       as I descend into my faithless pit
                                                                ­   of poor-planning.

I'd like it if everyone could just breathe--
get your cell-phones and computers in class,
and live in this moment.

Because yesterday is today
                         and today is tomorrow,
                                      and there is no future more important than now.

Until then and philosophy aside,
I guess I'll keep careening on the edge of reality
with my thumb up my ***
because god forbid
you become anything
          like me.


                                                           ­   -r0

outside,
the world is doused in
gold light.
the woman across the street
prunes her roses.
three hipsters
giggle
on the porch next door.
a mangy black cat prowls
the street, mistaking
the twinkle of wind chimes
for a nest of chirping birds.

inside,
bruiser and i are
still. (what does
a tornado look like?
what does it
feel like?

it feels like
waiting.)