I have a guru who comes to me from time to time
To teach me things I tend to forget.
Once he appeared as a wrinkled old coolie
Who carried my bag into a crowded train.
I gave him a generous fee which he did not count
And left, as I sat there feeling quite self-righteous.
Moments later, he returned jostling through the crowd
Teary eyed and hands joined to inquire in silence -
If I had made a mistake
Or if there was something else he could do?
For I had paid him far more than what was due.
In an instant I shrunk to the size of an ant
In front of this giant of a nobleman.

Raise your hand* if
your confidence is reaching its limit
Well let me tell you,
don't dare believe it for a minute

A poet stands at the center
of circles of illusions
Sparked by the fire within
and burnin' institutions

They write about the current state
as far as they can see it,
as well as personal doubts
claimin' that they can feel it

Don't hand your savings over,
'cause now you pay it forward,
but life won't pay you back,

So what you say to that?

"I say we're bein' controlled
by such an evil system;
a metal contract was forced
on lost and bleedin' victims."

"I don't agree with you, man.
We're where we need to be.
With very little control,
we risk to eat for free!"

We risk to eat for free?

"Food's a commodity!
And with overpopulation,
I say this honestly!"

"Don't mean to interrupt;
your notion of depravity
appears dumbfounded and
far from grounded by gravity."

"I say this world belongs
to kings and innovators;
hope of the people is thrown
to the incinerator."

"We're seeking liberators
mightier than the sword.
We work to buy them a pen -
weapons we can afford."

"And when their eyes are wide open
I think that writers see
the world not for what it is,
rather what it could be."

"Yeah! They're talkin' for us metaphorically,
imaginin' utopias for you and me,
questions answered rhetorically."

The world is yours**
and no one else's,
so live to give it more time
through love and being selfless.

Be serpent shrewd and dove docile,*
my Teacher tells me and sends me,
His sheep among wolves with nothing
packed except a walking staff,
but no gold is worth this good news
my Master unmatched by silver,
so I’m empty-handed but full-Spirited
for His might in me somehow inside
I feel Him living, as I travel places
to preach a Kingdom coming to my people
who wait with open doors to listen,
my work a different kind of fishing,
casting out with healing words
reeling others in to follow Him.

So many contradict themselves from the bad to the good
Yesterday, I was in class...
Just like a normal day.
But, ya... see…

I find it ridiculous, and senseless that students bully other students.
They try to act tough to make up for their immaturity.
Teachers act tough to make up for their impurities.

Yesterday,  I was in class…
There’s a kid suffering through a brain disorder
Than gets bullied for it!
The thing about it was the teachers, or students did nothing about it.
I guess people don’t care for a human life.

I went up to the teacher’s desk and asked if I was able to speak to her in the hallway.
A normal conversation, ya know?
She asked me why I couldn’t speak to her there.
Well, okay.
I waited. . . and waited, then I said it.
“They’re picking on Anthony again.”

Then…
She had the courage to say to me, “I told him to sit down. He’s fine.”
******* he is.
Do you see what that kid goes through every ******* day?!
No!
You don’t.
Because you don’t. Pay. Attention.
. . . .

I went back to my desk and sat down next to my dearest friend, Kaci.
I kept looking at her, back at Anthony, back to her, back to Anthony.
Then… 1 of the kids bullying him came up to him and tried breaking his stuff.
His laptop, his pencils.
Like, excuse me!
Who the **** do you think you are?!


I was fed up with it so I said, “Leave him alone.”
The kid told me, “I didn’t do anything.”
I wanted to say *******, but we needed to leave for class.
Well, for lunch.
I ran out of the class and into the restroom.
Kaci came in with me and hugged me so much, and I couldn’t help but cry.
It would be my fault if that child died.
I couldn’t stop them.
I couldn’t help him.

The thing that really ****** me off was the teacher looked up before I yelled, and saw him getting bullied.
Okay. Hold on.
At this point, this should be over with.
But, no.
She looked at her ******* phone and continued to do what she was doing.
She did nothing!

They try teaching us to stop bullying. How about we teach you some things about helping the victim instead of becoming the person to have a child murdered.

. . .

Who new society could be so ****** up?

When I was five years old and first stepped into a classroom I had lint and skittles and hope stuffed into my pockets. My firsts clutched at them so hard that when they made us shake hands with one another I extended a rainbow palm to my partners. They gawked at it for a second and then took my hand and we were stuck together with a bond that only innocence and sugar can provide.

When we were kids we built our trust out of sticks and stones--a bond that would come to be stronger than sugar and innocence and hope--you would lead us through waters we were not sure we could wade yet.

In 7th grade the spaces between hallways and classrooms are where I learned that silence breeds intolerance and apathy. Our trust was no longer built on sticks and stones, but on those moments when we chose not to be silent--when we were thankful that someone said anything to us at all because life only ever matters when you know you exist.

And so I will write you letters so that you know that I see you.

Dear Girl In Class That Listens to Boys Making **** Jokes,

I see you. I see those boys too. And they will see me when I reach down their throats where the hate they spew lives tell them that I will not meet their intolerance with tolerance.

I’ll probably get a phone call from mom.

Dear Boy In Class Who Changes All Of the Pronouns In His Poems Because He’s Scared Of  The Students Around Him,

I see you, I see those edits you make too. You’re beautiful and so are your words. Stop making bad edits.

Dear Boy In Class Who Thinks Gay Is A Synonym For Stupid

I know that all hate is learned and that you learned that this was okay because no one ever told you it wasn’t. I’m telling you now. Stop.

Dear Students In Class Who Are Afraid To Speak Up

I’m writing this poem for you. I want you to take this poem with you when you leave. Turn it over in your mind like the cool side of a pillow when you lay down to sleep. Let it support your head and your dreams.

Repeat it like a prayer so that these words will stick in your mind, even when I’m not there: Just because school is a weapon free zone does not mean that you leave your mind, your heart, your thoughts, your questions, your voice at home.

Take this poem and place it beneath your feet. Stand on it, use it to meet your adversaries at eye level every time they try to look down on you.

Let this poem catch you when they try to blast you back with backwards rhetoric.

Use this poem as a shield--hold the words around you so that when the world tries to drop bombs on you you’ll be able to appreciate the beat.

Keep it like a secret and when you’re alone and writing and the words are stuck in the ink of your pen remember that poetry doesn’t come from words, it comes from a willingness to love and to be loved. I know this because the first poem I ever heard was when my mother held my head in her lap and told me the only Spanish I would ever remember--todo para la familia--everything for the family.

And so I’ll leave those words as a mantra for you and I hope that you’ll understand some day that you don’t need this poem and you can crumple it up and throw it away because your voice matters and even if it’s met with silence, nothing will change that.

To The Teachers That My Students Write Poems About,

Take this poem. Use it as a warning.

My students are better poets than me.

Tell my favourite teacher that I'm still her darling boy
who used to look up to the rainy sky, miss home and cry
still as cunning and playful but now prose and poetry are the toy
and if she saw me play she would wonder and sigh
at that boy who made everything he touched filthy
for I find crisp clean pages and on them throw mud of words
who's still of indifference, condemned and guilty
Her little boy whose fascination was chasing butterflies and birds
tell my teacher I'm still her child, still not biting my tongue
but regurgitating all the bitter truth the world detests
busting in rage at hypocrisy and puffing pride out my lungs
I'm still bearing the eminent enmity my bluntness begets
tell her I'm still firmly clinging to the slipping dreams she instilled
barely floating, with waves of reality attempting to drown my talent and have her killed
*tell her I'm still doing pieces out of my daily struggles and torments
and posting them on social media, I'm that brave
even attempting to do double Shakespearean sonnets
writing about my illusive dreams and the unreachable I crave
someone tell my favourite teacher that I'm still her son
going against the currents of injustice instead of flowing with the river
taking the bull by his horns, doing whatever I can
yet sometimes giving in to detestable ways,corroding my liver
tell Victorious that I'm still impossible to comprehend
loving fictional writings while holding my classwork in contempt
why loath lectures,but love learning,why not pretend?
not even university education could be exempt
I think about my teacher everyday,she's still my Mama
but I hardly talk to her for my life's preoccupied with karma's drama

If I were a teacher,

I'd teach plagiarism
Like a patent office.
I'd teach publication
Like plagiarism,
And I'll proofread
Any paper that properly
Cites their sources.

I'd teach every
Kid from age X to Y
That if I can't
Lift them as
High as they
Want to go
Than somebody
Else
Can.

I would be the man,
That teaches subjects
Like I'm their King,
And I'd spread
Knowledge to every
Acre of my empire
I'd teach anything.

See,
I'd teach chemistry
By making the reaction of
Why and How
Always synthesize
Wow.

I'd be a catalyst
For positive change
By keeping every
School-yard bully
and kid that's always picked last
Around after class
To teach them physics,

Like if you have mass
And you take up space
Then you ******* matter.

I'd put the cool
in Coulombs.
I'd be so electrostatic
About magnetic fields
You could feel my fluxin'
Energy in the hallway.

I'd say
His story,
And Her story,
And everyone in-between's story,
Is about the day their parents met.

I'd teach ***-ed
Like it's about the
Day their parents met.
And it wouldn't be weird
It'd be beautiful.
Because anybody falling
In love is beautiful.

And speaking of beautiful:

Mathemagics,
Would no longer
Be a bottomless hat
But a bird.
With feathers and wings
And things that always
Find their way home.

I'd transform
The Fourier of
Our foundations
With equations
Of equality
Like you,
And I are
Always equal to
Us.

It'll be cake
To be genius.
....Or pie
Or whatever else is rational
In this situation.

And I
Would measure intelligence
With the answer to the question
Of why we are alive.

I'd standardize
Every test
By removing
Any box that
Takes us
Further apart

I would make art
Combining every
Color from East to West
In a masterpiece
That every child can draw
We'll call it "human"

I would solve
World hunger
And war,
And every other problem
That stems from greed
With answers to the
Questions that I still
Don't know

But I would show
Everyone whose ever
Made you hurt
That a broken heart
Has still got the
Courage to beat

Because it's their words
Where the heart breathes
Where the heart bleeds
Where the heart sleeps

And it's our dreams
That keep us awake
In the wake of our past

So I'd put every love letter
And box of their ****
On a bonfire, light a match,
And we would watch it burn.

Hell,
If I were a teacher
I'd say there's
So much left
That I've still got
To learn.

My heart is restless
My mind is wandering
And my body continues to ache
It's finally time to relax a bit
Yes, it's March Break!

I found my light
in not doing what's expected of me,
but in doing what's best
for a 7 year old
who lost his baby sister
and his train of thought
when counting to 20
because iPads download games in seconds
but it feels like years he's watching an ad
depicting guns and blood and dying and
every time he points a finger at a friend
the law tells me
I have to call his mom
who has no response to
"I just didn't feel like doing math today,"
but musters up every ounce of energy
she doesn't have
to expel one weak statement-
"We must do what is expected of us."

They tell me that restraint
is 3 seconds or more
of student resistance
and teacher persistence
but while my hand never touches him
my words wrap around his legs
telling them to stop pacing
and they cover his mouth
telling it to stop singing
and when he cries in the hallway
at 9:52, screaming,
"I hate this school,"
I cannot explain to him
how lucky he is
to be surrounded by adults
who fake a high tolerance
for his constant fidgeting
so instead we sit in silence
until his anger runs out
and my heart rate slows
and we are ready to try again.
Later, he hugs me.
I do not pull away.
This is not restraint.