I sense the touch
of boy's eyes upon
me, said Jeanette,
the touch inches

beneath my skin,
moves along my
veins, ****** at my
heart. I sit and see

the other girls remote,
untouched as I, their
voices gathered like
hens at feed, pecking

their order of who
and must; I hear the
words giggled: kiss
and tell, and touch

and feel, and who did
what to whom, echoing
around the room in
whispers spoken, hid

by hands, eyes betraying
what their voices are saying.
A girl talks of ******
climes, of ***** deeds,

with him, but who is he
for no one tells, just a
lover of girls. I wash
each night to cleanse me

from their touch of words,
their deeds half buried
in my mind's hold; I bathe
and sit and scrub, sensing

the day's grime wash clear
away, hair,arms, hands,
neck and *******, where
they say(and laugh) their

*** boys play. I hear their
words as I sit in class,
whispering, whispering,
who did what to whom

and where and were you
there?  I wonder at their
lives, their way of walk
and do and deeds, the want

of love or need of keeping
something back, virginity
not saved not cared for such
as seems when they speak

and sprout it all comes out.
I bathe in water warm and
soapy, scrub my skin to
cleanse them off, the night

spread before me like a dark
gown, the stars blinking eyes,
the moon a ghostly ship on a
dreary sea. I don't think boys

will want of me. I dress as
neat and tight and show no
part that should not be be
seen, I am as yet untouched,

unfingered, unkissed, a
flower in a gloomy meadow,
a blossom in a city site, a
gem(says mother) in a heap

of *****. I sense the touch of
boy's eyes upon my skin, it
bites at me, ****** at nerves
and heart, I want to be undone,
not left alone and torn apart.

How was your day?

                                       it was a day....except




this kid in the last row of class
shrouded in his own personal forest fire
actually took the time to cool into his seat

he settled down like a tree stump
as he listened to the murmuring of roots
                      y = ax^2 + bx +c

how could he not be captivated
in this wasteland for numbers and adolescent brains
how could he not be cultivated
                       this is my job

for the first time
he raises his hand with answers unpronounced
stumbling through parentheses
   as if they were brackets holding him together
               it is harder than it looks

he approaches the board
   -paper in hand
      and turns to face his audience

****! * it's a lot of people in here

I later ask him, when was the last time you went to the board
he says * never

the proof is in the pudding*
                                    irony is in the jello
                                              just eat it all

When inspiration comes
Backslap that *****
   And smile
Tell her her reception is too shallow
To catch these waves
120 megapixels in just one character

Stop them                                                             ­   I can hear the noises
Stop them                                                             ­   I want to
I want them                   laugh with me

We are the all- singing, all-dancing crap of the world.

You don't take the spice out

you take the spice out
put the **** in
and put the spice back in