Research paper due
Hours away, and yet I
Have no urgency

two papers are due--
academia threatens
to swallow me whole

There is a bullet in a box of crayons with really strange names like Parkland Perrywinkle, Sandy Hook Sanguine, and Great Mills Green in a place where children play Russian Roulette with their school supplies when they reach in to grab one and they’ve been learning about probability this week Forrest Gump will tell them you never know if you’re going to finish the lesson or turn into a statistic my sister likes to create mosaics by putting a hairdryer to crayons melting cascades of wax down a blank page sometimes she reaches in and it’s the one lead crayon at the top of the page and it’s only one color that seeps down into the crevices of the cafeteria’s tile floor that proceeds to wash away the Proud Honor Roll Parent stickers washes away the Proud Honor Roll Parent stickers I see another child reach into the box and I write another word problem I write another word problem: “Zoey reaches into a box of crayons. What is the likelihood she will not get to hang her drawing up on her kitchen refrigerator? What is the likelihood her funeral photo will hang there instead?” Draw students’ attention to the key word “likelihood.” Tell students This word shows that the question is asking whether or not you will live to tell your parents how your day at school was. and I wonder when school desks will take the shape of caskets in a place where both screams of laughter and screams of terror
are permitted

This is not a poem, but...

At least 10 people were killed as a result of a school shooting in Texas this morning. It's a tragedy, but one of the sort that seems to diminish in scope with each passing month. Ten people lost their lives in a fury of unimaginable pain and anguish, yet we seem to grow more immune by the hour. it's a mournful event over which we should weep, but it seems our hearts grow frosty and we hardly bat an eye. Because here's the thing--it's hardly news anymore. We are hardly surprised, hardly hurt, hardly affected. And this is perhaps the greatest tragedy of all.

4 victims were killed in a Tennessee Waffle House--surely now that I mention it, you recall the headlines. That was less than a month ago. The Parkland, Florida school shooting that left 17 dead was less than 2.5 months ago. The Sutherland Springs church shooting that left 26 dead was 6.5 months ago. The Las Vegas Massacre, which saw 58 people killed and over 800 injured, happened not even 8 months ago. The Pulse nightclub shooting that left 49 dead is not even 2 years old. The Charleston Church shooting, killing 9 and perpetrated by white supremacist Dylann Roof, isn't even 3 years old. The Aurora, Colorado movie theater shooting that killed 12 was almost 6 years ago, and the Sandy Hook shooting, leaving 27 dead--20 of whom were elementary schoolers--happened only months later.  The Virginia Tech shooting that killed 32 was 11 years ago. Columbine, where 15 people died, will be 19 years old this coming Sunday.

We remember all the headlines, but little of the aftermath. There's too much pain and trauma involved to fully recall the mournful scenes that follow each shooting. And so we are forced to attempt to move on with our lives, thereby washing our hands of the stain of these ****** massacres. We call for reforms, then forget when our politicians move on.

Indeed, our greatest and most fearsome coping mechanism, put simply, has been to forget. We forget the anguish, the empty, hollow, now-caustic thoughts and prayers, the toothless promises of reform. We forget, and move on. On to the street, on to the next, safe in the knowledge that we tried.

...

It seems to me that the greatest and most lamentable tragedy of this entire conversation may not be the crime itself, but rather our reaction to it.

And so it was, then, that when I read this morning's headline about the Texas shooting, I was hardly surprised. My greatest shock was that I was not shocked. And that I was not shocked, and that you weren't either, I'll wager, might be a crime greater than all the others.

After all, those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it, no?

Until next time, then...

I don’t know if I believe in god,
But if I do,

And if he is all-knowing,
Then he is not all-powerful.

And if he is,
Then he is neither benevolent
Not merciful.

I don't want to hear about your guns,
Quite honestly.

I don't.

I don't want to hear about your second amendment,
Your well-regulated militia,
Your intention to maintain the security of our free state.

I don't want to hear how guns don't **** people,
Or how murderers will always find a way.

I don't want to hear how your right to a gun is more important
Than my students' right to go to school
And come home--
Alive.

I don't want to hear it.

Because I want my students to be safe.
I want to be safe.
I want to feel reasonably assured that there won't be a school shooting in my building,

And right now I'm not.

Because it can be anywhere,
Any time,
Anyone.

It could be your son,
Your daughter.

It could be you,
Who has no more soccer practices to go to,
Or games to watch your child play in,
Or dreams to work towards.

I want to hear about solutions
(and no, I don't want a gun myself, thank you very much).

I want to hear that my student's right--
My student's Declaration of Independence-given,
Inalienable,
Truthfully,
Self-evident
Right to life

Matters more.

Than your Constitutional
Second amendment,
15 years later.

Because it does.

No more.
Never again.
March for your lives.

There we were,
Two lost teens,
Drowning in all we didn’t know
And all we felt.

It only makes sense we made the playlist we made,
Finding meaning in lyrics that told of experiences we’d had and not yet had.
Things we longed for and felt deeply about.

I was lost in my head, philosopher and hopeless romantic,
Seeking to learn how to be a
Simple Man.

And there was Skynyrd, words and guitar licks washing over me,
As I was told not to worry,
I’d find myself.

And there you were,
Sad and depressed,
Crying out for your
Hallelujah.

You knew love was no victory march,
Wainwright’s piano and voice giving clout to your every thought and feeling.

We each needed to Imagine,
Lennon assuring us that really,
It’s easy if you try.

So we sat,
Listening to the Sound of Silence,
Knowing we were the people talking without speaking.
Even as Simon and Garfunkel’s harmonies warned us,
Told us that the words of the prophets are written on the tenement walls.

And so we pressed on,
Hunting out that elusive American Pie,
Craving McLean’s country,
Lost a long long time ago.

We knew every vocal lilt and musical cue,
Singing the same old songs we knew.

And so we searched for happiness in the fields with the Wildflower,
Petty crooning and reminding us that we belong somewhere we feel free.

But inevitably, sadness would return, and we’d cry out— Wish You Were Here.

And though we were never a couple, Pink Floyd still made us feel like
Two lost souls,
Swimming in a fish bowl.

And we asked so many questions,
Questions whose answers we knew we’d never know,
Whose answers,
As always,
Were left Blowing in the Wind.

Dylan understood us.
We understood him,
As he spoke-sang and wept for humanity,
So too did we.

And desperately we tried,
Desperately—
To Turn the Page.

Seger’s sad, screaming sax sticking with us,
His cognitive dissonance striking a chord with us,
Here I go, playing star again,
There I go...

And you, knowing exactly what it’s like
Behind Blue Eyes,
Empathizing with Townshend and Daltrey,
Feeling like the bad man, the sad man.

And finally,
At long last we took comfort in the idea that someday
We’d climb that Stairway to Heaven,
Aching for the piper to lead us to reason,
For the new day to dawn,
For us,
Standing long.

And here we are now,
Years and miles having passed between us.
But still this playlist connects us,
Even as it did then.