the phone rings
and as always i recoil
my body not set to the ups and downs
of volume,
far more comfortable in the silence
and open space

i think of the x-acto knife at home
how it will shred through the layers of
paper like tissue

tissue like
skin
like tears
like my *******
like the soft space between my thighs

a collage though, put together and patched-up
perhaps i've forgotten those envied bits
long gone are the nights of lovers lying soundless
the room filled with the scent of lust
my tongue and mouth dry, lips cracked from kissing

a drawer full of clippings all ready and i'll glue
color and light, texture and contrast mean almost everything
maybe, mostly, wantonly
withdrawn and blindly i imagine the outline
the way the picture will move and i will be seen

a microscopic view at best, even from over there
turned away and forgotten, like the art of long ago
she once flew higher and faster
skies ahead shouting for her to catch up
days like raindrops splashing on the darkened blacktop
now it's more swamp below than land
footing uncertain and pain inflicted
hands ingrained, lashings she deserves

how to come so far and yet be stuck so violently to the web
spun around and around
blood dripping and draining
and the flies circle,
they wait aware of the unraveling of the fleshy pieces
wanting only the remains

she is a sinner, she repents
but the crime, what of it an whose crime is it really
does she walk with these painful heels or flutter off
reminded that time will heal what space has not already
years of distance and she becomes less human
less herself
less anyone
less

Poets are bipolar--
musicians, OCD.
I wonder if we’d have much art
without insanity?
Coleridge smoked *****,
Poe preferred whisky.
If not for their addictions
would we have their poetry?
Blake had manic visions;
Hemingway was suicidal.
The heights and depths of their emotions
meant their minds were never idle.
Garcia tripped on acid;
Iommi did *******.
Would they have played such blissful notes
if they weren’t a bit insane?
Yes, we must treat the ill,
we want them with us still--
but if we lost all craziness
there’d  be genius that we’d miss.

How hard it is to articulate,
     To make words make sense.
     String them along in a sentence
To craft and manipulate,
   This insanely difficult thing we call
"Language."

How hard it is to emphasize
The right word, right line,
Make it all interjoin and intertwine,
Combine
And rhyme,
     Shape it,
     Weave it
Into this insanely difficult thing we call
"Poetry."

How hard it is to breath
     Life into this verse,
    Make it transverse,
From pen to page to eye to mind to soul.
Where it can nest like a coal
     And burn and flame and thrive.
     And give birth to this insanely difficult thing we call
"Life."

Books are our friends hey!
Don’t throw them away;
Keeping ourselves array
So that we be at assay
With books positively lay
For scrutiny at a ballet.
They – best pals – do say:
Read lavishly and do play,
Or in bright sunshine splay.
All healthy tips; no betray,
No deceiving, no astray.
Hence be ready to little pay
And be free as that jay
And soar up in the airway
Knowledge and wisdom to flay.

CURRICULUM

Blood seeps
It curtains their eyes
Rendering them
Temporarily blind
Semi-scalped
Skin folded back
Exposing of skull
Ready to crack

Holes drilled
An access to the mind
Pumped with liquid knowledge
Which then solidifies
Conventional learning
Soft subjects barred entry
Too fluid to be controlled
Deep fear of creativity

Kicked into touch
With confined education
Sent into life
Into great expectations
3R certificates
Irrelevant to some
Force fed on dictates
From the seed to the crumb

For some who think outside the box
Of the language of academia
Why have knowledge forced upon
When it’s free on Wikipedia?
Stifling ideas
Kettling free thinking
Those and more values
Lined up for the shrinking

You will think in the ways
That we want you to think
You’ll sink into rules
And you’ll fall into sync
You will follow the norm
You’ll adhere to the rules
Of stagnated teachings
In stagnated schools

Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017

"The instructor said:
              Go home and write
               a page tonight.
              And let that page come out of you-
              Then, it will be true. " -Theme for English B by Langston Hughes

Ten minutes.
Is that all it takes?
To pour a piece of my soul,
Onto this page?

If it were up to the schooling system,
I could write and write and write.
But not a word of it would be True.
Not a word of it would be me.
Not a shard of my soul would be seen.

If given the chance I could write for hours
Page after page
Verse after verse
No need to stop or slow down
I know that my own Voice, I have already found.

I could talk about the love, the hurt
Anything others wanted to hear.
Or I could write about absolutely nothing.
Does writing about nothing count as something?
If the words on the page mean nothing to me,
Should I still be congratulated on the "good" work that they see?

My eyes are dead as I am praised for the work I forgot I wrote.
Because I didn't mean a single note.
This sometimes makes school simple.
If I say what they want to hear,
Then I pass and move to the next class,
While graduation grows near.

But what if I lose my Voice?
As so many others have.
I think that I would go mad.

Ah, it would seem my time is up.
Tell me then,
Was ten minutes enough?
Did I place a piece of my soul in this poem?
Or did it mean nothing to me,
As so much of our educational writing does.