Life is not measured by seconds or minutes, but by memories. An old, white lady in a white uniform trying to teach me how to tie my shoes, a red wagon, lying in that space above the back seat of the Hudson coming back from Grandma's watching the tree limbs go by above as we drove home, snow--lots of it--sliding down the big hill on our sleds, saying hello to Darrell, the bully, in 3rd grade as other classmates literally ran away from him because they were afraid of him, my friend, Bruce, who would not trade me Mickey Mantle for my Allie Reynolds, Ms. Perrin, my 4th-grade teacher, one of the best I ever had, who died of cancer two years later, Virginia Bright, my first girlfriend, who took me to her church Sunday nights to learn how to square dance, my dog, Cinder, my best friend growing up, my red bike that took me everywhere, embarrassed at the Y because my right ******* was not fully descended, Maggie, my Black mother, who fed me breakfast--two poached eggs, buttered wholewheat toast, and grits--every morning, washed my ***** clothes, spanked me when I needed a spanking, hugged me when I needed a hug, loved me when my mother couldn't because she was so depressed, always making straight-A's, my dad taking me to Kansas City to take a test (he never told me it was an IQ test), asking Patty to dance the first two dances--we danced alone at the center of the basketball court  as the music began to play at the SnowBall Dance when none of her other classmates would ever get near her--being elected co-captain of the football team and the city-championship basketball team, elected president of the Student Council at Roosevelt Junior High, elected president of the Sophomore Class at Topeka High by my over-800 classmates, pushed by my dad to Andover (arguably the best prep school in the world) my junior year, chose Columbia over Yale (the Core Curriculum and New York City), was a member of Blue Key, Nacoms, and, most meaningfully, elected by my over-700 classmates one of only 15 to lead the Commencement procession, couldn't sleep in law school, dropped out, couldn't sleep for four more months, spent a year-and-a-half at Menningers (saved my life), started writing poetry when, through therapy, I realized I had my own feelings that coalesced with my intellect in my unconscious, slowly emerging through my subconscious into my conscious mind, when I had to write what was coming out of me, otherwise I would lose it forever, seven months at Topeka State Hospital after dad disowned me, founded and edited TALL WINDOWS, The National Public Magazine, moved to Phoenix in 1977, had an involuntary Kundalini arising (took me six years to revover from it, and did, but only because of the exceptional use of unguided imagery practiced by the most loving person I ever got to know, Dr. Patricia Norris) when my girlfriend, who had wanted to marry me badly, lied to me and ****** her new next-door neighbor to make me jealous (I found this out because I saw her bruised ***** that I knew I had not bruised), still unconsciously traumatized during my childhood by mom and dad's miserably unhappy marriage, selected one of 25 alumni out of over 40,000 to serve three two-year terms on the Board of Directors of the Columbia College Alumni Association (1990-1996), traveled the country as a human-rights activist meeting, talking to, eating with, getting to know the hungry, the homeless, the hopeless that populate our yet unrealized democracy, Jorge Luis Borges writing that the most important task we all have in our lifetimes is to learn how to transmute our pain into compassion. That's what I hope my life has been about.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

Two young brothers are left at home,
All by their lonesome selves,
The older one notices a new toy,
Sitting high up on a shelf.

He climbs up and brings on down,
What he believes is a toy gun,
He thinks about the games they’ll play,
Boy this sure will be fun.

He aims the ‘toy’ at his little brother,
And shoots him in the head,
But that gun was not a toy at all,
And soon the three-year-old is dead.

When a child dies,
All the stuffed animals cry,
Alone on a shelf,
They sit by themselves,
In a cold lonely room,
Like a final tomb.

Johnny’s tired of being bullied at school,
But every dog has its day,
Though all his classmates seem so mean,
Johnny will make sure they all pay.

The next day at school will be different,
From a knapsack he pulls out a gun,
Suddenly he starts shooting his classmates,
Shoots them in the back as they run.

Soon most of the class has been shot,
And their young bodies are lying there dead,
With one bullet left in the chamber,
Johnny puts the gun to his own head.

When a child dies,
All the angels cry,
The tears flowing down,
On the sad little town,
It’s a cold, cold rain,
But it won’t numb the pain.

For Jose this is the biggest day in his life,
It’s his gang initiation in the ‘hood,
He must seek out a rival gang member,
With a couple of shots he’ll be good.

Jose packs his piece and extra clips,
And his driver takes him to the spot,
He takes aim at his helpless victim,
And another is dead with just one shot.

But that one bullet it ricocheted,
You hear a young mother scream and cry,
As she realizes her young son is hit,
On a cold dark street he is left to die.

When a child dies,
The whole world cries,
All lives matter, big and small,
I ask you people, heed the call,
Please stop the hate, before it’s too late,
For the future of us all.

10-27-15.

Thirteen is a fragile age
For both boys and girls
Not only for girls
But mostly for girls
When you are a female,
By the time you’re thirteen
You already have a basic idea of what you’re supposed to be like:
What you should wear, how you should behave, what you should say
By the time you’re a thirteen-year-old girl in the year 2008
There is an unspoken list of rules,
A non-verbal inventory of criteria that you should have met
By your fourteenth birthday
You must shave your legs,
You mustn’t wear dresses above knee length,
You must lose your virginity
By the time that I was thirteen years old,
All of my closest girl friends had lost their virginities
Albeit, they were fourteen and I was thirteen because I was a year ahead
But that is a different story for a different poem
This poem is about ****
I remember hearing my friends talk about how they had lost their virginities
In their beds, in the shower, in the backseat of his car
But when I was thirteen, I wasn’t worried about ***
I didn’t want to lose my virginity
Not in a bed, or a shower, or the backseat of a car
No, when I was thirteen, I was highly preoccupied with other things
I was worried about love and what love meant
I wanted to feel love in my heart and in my head
Before I ever felt it in my ******
And let it be said, now, half a decade later
That *** and love are not always the same thing
I wish I would have known that then
I wish I would have known that when he put his hand down my pants
While I was only trying to enjoy a movie in the company of my boyfriend
A man who I thought I could trust
Excuse me, a boy who I thought I could trust
I wish I would have known that when he whispered daggers in my ear
Telling me that he loved me enough to “grace” me with his touch
I wish I would have known that when he pushed me into the couch
With the rough insides of his palms
And gained entry to a gate
That I never gave him the key to
And I wish I would have known that when I asked him later,
“What just happened?”
Too stunned and in pain to cry
And he replied,
“It’s what girlfriends and boyfriends do.
It’s what you do when a girlfriend loves her boyfriend.
You do love me, right?”
And I said yes
When I went back to his house a week later,
I told him that I felt ashamed, and guilty, and *****
Because I didn’t want to lose my virginity
And I had told him that again and again and again
And I was enraged
I was angry because I didn’t have a word for what had happened to me
I had been taught that **** only happens in dark alleys
Not in the basement of your boyfriend’s home
I had been taught that **** only happens when you wear short skirts and halter-tops
Not jeans and a sweatshirt
I had been taught that rapists were old men who I didn’t know
Not my sixteen-year-old boyfriend of two years
And he responded to my anger
But instead of pushing me into the couch,
He pushed me into the wall
And then into the floor
And then out of his life
And you would think,
“Good, this is where it ends. It’s all over now.”
But let it be said, now, half a decade later,
That for survivors of ****** assault, it is never over
The story continues with Planned Parenthood staff, two years later
Having to be the ones to break the news to me
That it was not normal relationship behavior
And hearing the nurse, outside the door, tell another nurse,
“We’ve got another one.”
The story continues with my father asking me,
“Are you sure you didn’t just have *** with him? Were you asking for it?”
The story continues with my sixteen-year-old classmates
Calling me a ***** *****
Because a friend of my ****** decided to tell the entire school
About what had happened to me in that basement three years prior
The story continues after I broke up with my ex-fiancé
And he befriended my ******
In an attempt to **** me off for “breaking his heart”
The story never ends for ****** assault survivors
Statistically, a quarter of the women reading this poem
Will be or have been ***** at some point in her lifetime
And for those women, the story will not end
So now the question presents itself:
How can we end the story?
Therefore, as the author of this **** poem,
I take responsibility for this question,
And I answer it this way:
In the same way that I learned
When I was thirteen years old
That love and *** are not always the same thing,
You must teach your boys
That yes and silence are not always the same thing.

It may not be too surprising, maybe it is
But the question I field the most in high school
Has nothing to do with calculus, nothing to do with biology
Hell, it doesn’t even have anything to do with colleges
People most want to know if I’m Chinese, Japanese, or Korean

Sometimes, when they think they’re funny
They like to pull their skin back to thin their eyes into slits
And their friends erupt into prepubescent sidekick laughter
And I’d laugh right along
Not because I was a prepubescent sidekick
But because those jokes didn’t bother me
That much

The first person to ask me that was a black kid who maybe stood 6 foot
As a freshman
Wearing his new LeBron jersey with the Miami Heat logo plastered in front
Complete with Air Jordan’s and official NBA socks
He asked me politely with his head bowed
Maybe a bit too low
I think I saw him snicker, but I was too naïve to be sure

Well honestly bro, I know which one I am
But I can’t tell you the difference between the Chinese, the Japanese, or the Koreans
Or in some of your cases, the Chinks, the Japos, and the *****
Cause’ even if I could, it wouldn’t matter
I’ve seen some of you ignorant ******* taste Sushi
and widely proclaim it as the weirdest Chinese **** you have ever tasted
Sushi comes from the Land of The Rising Sun, fyi
And one would think that you Americans would know more about the country
You guys basically nuked 65 years ago

But let me tell you about being Asian
Let me tell you about the ridiculous Asian accents done by ignorant classmates and even friends
Let me tell you about teaching simple words to the curious
Only to discover they’re really just interested in learning foreign swear words
C’mon kids, there’s Google translate for that garbage

Let me express the frustrations and embarrassment when you’re young
and only good at counting thus far
Yet you already speak the English language better than your parents
I used to always insist on leaning over my mother’s lap
So I could holler into the speaker at McDonald’s drive-thru

You guys want to rip me on my own driving too
Well I got styles yo, just like my hair
I got my Tokyo Drift, my Jeremy Lin, my Mario Kart
Or my turn signal on for the last five miles
And once you step into that high school everyone,
and I mean everyone, thinks you’re good at math and
expects you to give out answers in bulk like fortune cookies
You all think that I know the clever tricks
that Asians use for their grade-point-averages
Well, I have a C in AP calc
They say A stands for Asian
Well, does my C stand for, Caucasian?

Did ya’ll know that every year, my Swim team would travel upstate to Pekin High for a meet
And until 1980, they were known as the Chinks
And every time their football team scored a TD, a white kid dressed in Asian gear
Would bang on a gong while some players and fans would bow solemnly?

And when my boy Jeremy was dubbed by your boy LeBron
You guys all laughed and jeered when ESPN was headlined the next day with the phrase
“***** In The Armor”

For a while, I felt a shame for being Asian
I would express my private desires to be White or Black if I had the choice
Drawing the patient lectures from my parents that were admittedly, in poorly spoken English

Even now these so-called friends would still rib me about my ethnicity
This is where colleges come in kids
And yes, I got into a great school
But it is not the purpose of my life to get good grades, good colleges, or
satisfaction from my dad
I only strive to do what you all strive to do
and that makes me as American as you all
So it would be fitting for me to address the jury the way I am about to
Therefore to all you calc cheaters and arrogant good drivers,
to all of the fake friends and prepubescent sidekicks
*******

"Go and talk to your son!". It seemed lately that every arrival at home, in the old section of Glasgow, began with "Go and talk to your son!". "Why?...what has he done this time"...answered Angus' dad. "What trouble did he get into now?". "None...so far as I can figure" answered Mary, mother of the aforementioned Angus.

"Then why am I going to talk to him?". " He's not selling autographs again is he".
"No dear, he's not...you should just go and have a wee chat with him...that's all."

"Alright, I will"...."will I need some hobnobs as ammunition, or should I be okay on me own?".
"You should be okay without them, but, then again, a wee plate of hobnobs never hurt anyone...least of all our Angus"

Dad, poured two glasses of cold milk, set six hobnobs on a plate and ventured up to himself's room. He knocked twice, just above the "No gurls alowd" sign that Angus had put up after last nights arguement with his Mum, over carrots. Angus refused to accept the arguement that carrots gave you better eyesight...while his Mum said they did. A snicker from Dad at Angus' response almost got him banished to the sofa for the night himself, with his own "No gurls alowd" sign going up in the living room. He remembered Angus standing up from his chair, and stating "If carrots give ye such good eyesight, how come so many rabbits get hit by cars at night?". Then he stormed off.

He knocked again, and Angus opened up the door. Angus was still in his blue school shirt and grey pants. "Can I come in?" asked his father. "I've brought milk...and hobnobs".
Angus stepped back and let his father enter the room. The walls were covered with posters, of cars, footballers, horses, bikes, cartoon characters....so much so, there was barely any space left for anything else.

"Yer mum said I should talk to you...son...do you know why?" "Nope"...said Angus..."do you?" "That's why I'm asking you lad....she told me to come see you...do you know why I'm here?"
Angus tilted his head and answered "because Mum told you too?".
It was clear they weren't getting anywhere with this, so Dad asked "How was school today?"

Angus was now in full time kindergarten at St. Martin's in The Fields Primary School in Glasgow. The school was old, dank, smelled of age and was one of the finest in all of Glasgow...for it's age. It was famous for having had two members of The Bay City Rollers as students, one for about three months and the other a little less. They never graduated from St. Martin's, but, it was something to hang their hat on.

"I got all my Christmas Cards taken away today Da." said Angus. "I was giving them out to everyone, and the teacher, Mr. McDonall came and took them away.".
"Why would he do that boy?"...."Where were you doing it?'
"I was outside before school started giving them out...." , Angus sniffed, "and he came over and grabbed them from me".
Dad, remembered Angus working away for the past two nights, printing everyone's name on the cards, as perfect as he could. It only took 43 cards to get the necessary 21 Angus needed for all of his young classmates.
"Why would he do that?"..."did he tell you why?". "No Dad" said Angus through the rapidly increasing flow of sniffles and snot that normally accompany a crying child.

"I didn't find out until I went to the office to see the Principal afterwards".
"You went to the office for handing out Christmas Cards?" . "That doesn't make any sense son, are you sure you weren't doing anything else?"
"I was just handing out cards Da, that's all", said Angus as he grabbed another hobnob, which he quickly stuffed under his pillow for later. He would get in trouble for that one, but, it would be worth it.

"The Principal said something about Christmas Cards that say Christmas on them, can't be given out at school anymore. They can only say Happy Holidays. If it doesn't say Christmas on it, how can it be a Christmas Card Dad?".

"I don't know boy"...."but I am **** sure gonna find out"....and "you'd better eat that hobnob under your pillow before Mum sees it"...smiled Dad.

The pair ventured downstairs for dinner, neither discussing what went on in the room where "No gurls were allowed". Dinner passed in silence, with Mum looking from one to the other to get some sort of reaction. Once, Angus started to talk, but it had nothing to do with what went on between Father and Son, so she continued eating. She would find out later after Angus went to bed.

After dinner, Angus went to the park with his friends for an hour to play football, and tag, and swing on the swings for a while. Mum, took this chance to corner Dad...and corner him she did...."What went on up there? What did you two talk about?" "He won't say anything to me...what did he do?"
"Nothing....he did nothing wrong at all, so as I see it....Angus didn't do anything wrong".
He kind of smiled at that, because normally after being told "Go talk to your son...", Angus had always done something wrong...this time...it was The Principal.

"Tomorrow, I'm staying home in the morning and taking himself to school....I'm going to see The Principal". "What for?...if he didn't do anything wrong, why are you going to see the Principal?".
"Well, what time of the year is it?".....asked Dad. "It's Christmas silly, you know that...why?"
"Well, apparently it isn't Christmas at St. Martin's in The Fields...at least not as far as himself's teacher and new Principal are concerned. It's now Holiday time....not Christmas Time, Holiday Time. Our wee Angus got in trouble for handing out Christmas cards at Christmas. Does that make any sense?"...said Dad.

The next morning at breakfast, Angus looked up and asked "Dad, shouldn't you be going to work? you'll miss your train.". "I'm taking you to school and going to see your Principal, son". "Why?" asked Angus. "Let's just say I'm going to give him a Christmas Card....have you seen my bible?".
"It's on the sideboard...but, why do you need that Da?"...asked the boy.
"Let's just say...to make a point.".

Mum smiled as the two men, both wee and tall, walked together hand in hand down the drive towards the school. Upon arrival, Angus went off with his friends, while Dad, went into the old, intimidating looking institution. He could smell the old wood soap and mustiness as he waled down the hall, past the class pictures and the old trophies that get hauled out and cleaned every year for games day, only to be put back again after the awards presentations.

Upon arriving at the office, he announced "I'm here to see The Principal.....where is he?".
A pair of beady, spectacled eyes looked up from behind the front desk...and in a thin, reedy, voice asked..."And who might you be, sir...to come in without an appointment?".
"Ah'm flippin' Father Christmas, that's who I am....I am Angus' Mc Dougalls dad, and I am here to see the ****** Principal. Now where is he?"
"Without and appointment.." she started, quickly stopping when Dad, walked past the desk to the door marked M. Dingwall, Principal on it.

"You can't go in there"...screeched the reedy voice..."not without an.." "I know..." said Dad..."not without an appointment.....well, I've got mine right here, and right now..." he said, waving his bible in needle noses face. He continued in to M. Dingwall, Principal's office....and sat down.

M. Dingwall, Principal...looked up from the papers on his desk, which incidentally had 5, yes...5 Christmas Cards on it, and asked Dad..."and who are you to come into my office..."...."without and appointment"...finished Dad. " As I told your chihuahua out front, all bark and no bite by the way, I am frigging Father Christmas, who I see on 3 of the 5 cards you have on your desk. That's who I am, Father Christmas !!!"

"Well, Mr. Christmas, what can we do for you? " asked a clearly shaken M. Dingwall, Principal. "I'll tell you what you can do for me....you can apologize to my son, for a start. My wee lad Angus, came here yesterday morning and was sent to see you for handing out Christmas Cards, at Christmas. What am I missing here?".

"I remember that....yes, he was disciplined and told no more Christmas Cards, it's against the policy of the school board...it's a religious holiday, and we are not allowed, with all of the various religious groups represented within our walls to favour one over another. So, no more Christmas Cards in this school. That is the policy.", said M. Dingwall, Principal.

"That's nice...then what are those 5 cards on your desk....the ones that happen to have Christmas on them and Father Christmas and a nativity scene, which if I know the book I am holding here, is a religious representation, and the reason we have Christmas in the first place. "...asked Dad.

"Those are private, they were given to me by staff" said M. Dingwall, Principal. "I don't care if they came from Jesus Christ himself " yelled Dad, crossing himself in the process, "They don't fit in with the policy you gave my son a reprimand for yesterday."  He looked about the office, and saw a small, four foot tall tree in the corner as well. "Is that a Christmas tree or a holiday tree sir?, which is it?"

M. Dingwall looked up and said, "It's a Christmas Tree, of course, haven't you ever seen a..." and he stopped. He looked at the tree, and the cards, The eyeglasses out front went back to whatever it was she was doing before Father Christmas arrived. "I see....". "You see what sir,?" asked Angus' dad, looking at the tree, and the cards and ignoring the eyeglasses with the reedy voice out front.

"I see your point....It's Christmas, not holdaymas, or xmas....it's Christmas, and I followed policy that I myself am not following myself. I will change that right now....imagine, it took a visit from Father Christmas to get me to see the light..." laughed M. Dingwall, Principal.

"My boy Angus, will be in class, expecting to be told that he can give out his cards to the rest of his friends as he was yesterday...am I understood M. Dingwall, Princinpal?" asked Dad.

"Yes sir, the mark will be stricken from the record and his cards will be returned....I appreciate you coming in to clear up this little misunderstanding...even if you didn't ..." "I know...have an appointment.". M Dingwall stood to shake Dad's hand as he left, and as Dad reached the door, he said "Merry Christmas". Dad thought a bit, smiled at what he had just accomplished and said to M. Dingwall, Principal...."and yes...It is A MERRY CHRISTMAS".

Ok…today I’m talking about my friends…in the pre-cyberspace era and now in 2012…feel free to interrupt and ask questions as they pop up in your heads…


Part 1: pre-cyberspace

1
I love this age
of the internet

but ages ago
(pre-cyberspace)
I was lonely
I had no friends
and my neighbors
gave me ***** looks;
and my classmates
when I gave them scone
they gave me scorn


2
I wrote to prospective penpals
but they never replied -
those *******!
Nothing ever in my mail
in exchange for the thousands I sent!
It was just a ***** scheme
to collect my stamps!
And maybe they’re Buffet-style investors –
thought one day I’ll be famous
so they’ve collected my letters
in my elegant handwriting...


3
by the way
any of you of my age here at this site -
any of you got my unloved, collected penpal letters?
Well you know what?
I never became famous;
I became a poet
and poets never make money -
so what have you got?
My letters you collected
are as worthless as banana peel!
Losers!
You should have bought Coca-Cola shares
like Warren Buffet!
Losers!





Part 2: and then came cyberspace

4
Ah, so woe was me then
with no friends -
then came the internet
And wow! Did I get mail!
Now I’ve got countless mail and mail again –
You’ve got mail!
You’ve got mail!
chirp my computers!
(Yeah – I got so much mail
I need a herd of computers!)
And what did you say?
Spam? Junk mail?
I mean, OK, there’s junk mail and spam, yeah –
Hey! What’s wrong with you guys?
You people have too many questions!
You jelalous?
One thing’s sure never changed in the world -
All you wise guys and spoilsports!

5
Well
and as the tornado of my e-mails implies
the internet has brought me countless friends:
Hey, all those penpals who never replied -
Eat your hearts out, baby! -
Cos yours truly now has
countless numbers of friends
at various sites like *Faceless
Friendless, Lonely Hearts Full of Holes –
to mention just a few

6
And you know what?
I get so many just writing to me - to me,
with requests –
Requests! - see how polite and civilised my friends be?
Well, there’re just so many
I’ve had to turn down quite a few
who’re not, shall we say,
not good-looking enough, unlike me…
You know, it’s important, to be seen in good company
What?
Sure…you want proof? Just a few names
from the infinite list of my friends will suffice, you say?
Yeah, here are some of my friends with such distinguished names:
Gummy bear…Porcupine…Desperado…Mexican Jumping Beans…
Kosovo Sweetheart…Reindeer Pie…China Doll…Ninja Turtles…
And hey – don’t you try steal any of my friends!
Sure some people turn me down –
like that guy what’s-his-name in Syria?
Yeah – him…he said he doesn’t want to be friends;
says he’s too busy fixing his people…
Then I asked
yeah, I asked President Obama – but he said
he has got enough Aussie friends,
in high places, might I add, he said
Oh, but he’s no idea about
the value of my Friends Database!
I asked Vladamir Putin
(since he’s so many friends in Russia)
but he says he’s busy at the moment
caring for the people of his nation…
(No wonder he’s so many friends in his nation
who all turn out in the streets to show him their love.)
But hey? Who needs them anyway -
when I’ve got friends like Rasputin?
Yeah, see – I’ve not only friends in cyberpsace
but from otherspace too,
but that’s another story…

Point being: thanks to cyberspace
at last
I’ve got all the friends I want!
By the way,
did I mention my friend Chubby Pinch My Bottom?

being a good student is always one of the reasons

being a good student is one of the reasons why im a really inconsiderate friend, apparently
because i dont share my answers
because i dont break the rules
and because i dont hate going to school
i just dont have the heart to tell them that school is actually my quiet
that school is my rest from life
that school is my escape
that this is how it was

being a good student is one of the reasons why im an unreliable brother, it seems
because i dont tend to their needs when im home
because i dont help them with their homework
and because i dont have any time left for them bec im focusing on my studies
i just dont think they'll want to hear that im not doing any of it for them because no one did those for me
that no one made me dinner at age 13
that no one ever taught me how to answer my homework
that this is how it was

being a good student is one of the reasons why im a irresponsible son, i believe
because i dont ever want go to family outings
because i dont prioritize them over school meetings
and because im barely home from sleeping over my classmates' houses just to finish a ******* output
i just dont think he'd appreciate me telling him i never felt like a part of that family
that i never felt like he'd prioritize me over anything
that i never once felt like coming back to this house was the same as coming back home
that this is how it was

that this is how it is
that im so sick of everyone saying im
an inconsiderate friend
or an unreliable brother
specially an irresponsible son

so if the only thing im good at are quizzes and projects and tests and deadlines

then i sure as hell am gonna keep at it

I don’t know what I’m reading.

I stare and stare and stare at the book given to me by my professor but can’t bring myself to open it, because I don’t know what I’m reading. It’s not in a foreign language that I’m having a hard time translating, because ironically, that would be far too easy. It’s in my native language, the words registering to my brain like breathing, but I still don’t know what I’m reading.

What are these authors saying, as they twist and weave their words into a world that everyone around me seems to understand? I can see the surface level of what the author is trying to say, and if I try hard enough I know I can scratch at it to see the layer right underneath, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

“Don’t give excuses,” my professor says, and I know it comes across as an excuse as I try to explain that I can’t tell anyone what the underlying meaning of this scene means, or the symbolism it’s supposed to represent, since it goes flying over my head like a bird narrowly avoiding collision.

“You need to participate,” my professor says, and I know I need to try but how can I when everything that takes ages for me to think of is said within the first five minutes of class discussion? What takes me an hour takes my classmates a minute; what takes time for me to raise my hand for takes my classmates to the next topic, my contribution long past relevant.

How do I survive college this way? How do I get by when writing is what I’m good at, but I can’t understand the writing of other authors and poets who put just as much work into their stories as I do? I am a fraud; the looks of confusion and shame I receive when I state my major to the world are well-deserved.

“Could you share with the class?” my professor asks before we are dismissed, the eyes of my classmates tearing into my soul as I try to bring the words to my lips that I know will never come. What could I say to everyone that expects an intelligent conversation from a college senior?

“I’m sorry professor,” I say. “I can’t.” And I sag under the weight of disappointment.

It’s not my fault, after all. I don’t know what I’m reading.

Fall surrendered, snow fell, and Ruth’s mother bought a blanket for her daughter’s seventeenth Christmas. It wasn’t a very expensive or spectacular blanket; it was extraordinary only in the fact that it hadn’t been picked mindlessly from a Christmas list but had instead been chosen lovingly and thoughtfully. She knew her daughter was forever chilly and would love the blanket’s fleece side, and she laughed to see that it had snaps just like the blanket she herself had spent her evenings cocooned in when she was Ruth’s age. So she wrapped the blanket more beautifully than the other gifts and set it gently under the tree.

The sun stretched, adults yawned, and Ruth opened her mother’s gift on Christmas morning. At the sight of the blanket, her grandmother’s eyes welled with memories of Ruth’s mother, looking almost identical to how Ruth looked now, wrapped up in her own blanket with the snaps. Ruth admired the gentle color of the blanket’s slick side and stroked the fleece side against her check before setting it on top of the rest of her gifts. She thanked her mother enthusiastically (she’d always been acutely aware of her reaction to gifts in front of their givers) and laughed good-naturedly at her grandmother’s hovering tears before hugging them down her face.

Naked trees shivered, frost iced the landscape, and at her mother’s suggestion Ruth spent the winter with the blanket layered beneath her covers. She nestled beneath it every night, but felt guilty when she couldn’t love it any more than anything else she had in her room, and she never snapped it around herself as her mother had done. She’d tried to wear it like that the day she was given the blanket, but it had made her feel uncomfortable and constrained. So instead she slept with the blanket spread flat beneath her sheets through that winter and into the spring.

Spring sprung, flowers bloomed and Ruth bounced for a moment on her toes before diving headfirst into his eyes. The weeks passed for her not in hours and days but in giggles and kisses, and she was surprised when her usually analytical, suspicious mind released her heart and allowed it to love recklessly and entirely. Making her bed one giddy morning, Ruth stroked the soft, fleece side of her blanket and then the slick, smooth side, and she thought of sweet picnics and stargazing from quiet hilltops. She folded the blanket and kept it in her car in preparation for any such spontaneity.

The moon beamed loudly, prom streamers fluttered, and Ruth danced with him wildly. Her classmates all felt just as immortal, and everyone laughed and spun and anticipated together. When they finally left the dance, Ruth’s body was still coursing with the night’s excitement, intoxicated with young love and the bright eternity that stretched before her. He brought her to a small hilltop where she spread the slick side of the blanket against the grass, and the two lay trembling there beneath the stars. Finally, he wrapped his mouth and his heart and his body around hers, and her innocence leaked slowly onto the fleece.

The moon slid drunkenly behind the hills, birds began to wake, and Ruth flew home on her own audacity, leading the dawn behind her. In the dim light, she noticed the garbage can her father had brought to the curb the night before, and she decided to spare her mother the pain of discovering the once soft fleece now stained with rebellion. Quietly, she lifted the lid and dropped the blanket inside. Its snaps scraped loudly against the can for an instant, but then the morning quickly swallowed the noise. By the time the lid banged back down, Ruth was rushing back to the house, her blanket already forgotten.

~Dedicated to all victims of bullying, which include girls
& boys of all ages, sizes, and backgrounds.  (That includes me too.)~

Yvonne was very, very, very happy.
She loved her mother.
She loved her brother Phillip.
And she loved swans.
Oh, did she ever love swans!

She loved the way they looked
With their smooth, fluffy feathers,
And colorful beaks of orange, yellow and red.
She would watch them for hours
As they glided over water
In the pond at the park.

Her favorite thing was when two swans
Would get close, ever so close,
Head to head, forming a heart
With their beautiful, curved necks.

Her next favorite thing was
When baby swan cygnets
Would bunch together,
Closely following behind their mother.

She loved swans so much that she
Made a song about them.
Yvonne called it her Swan Song.

“Oh, lovely swan, as you swim in the pond,
Your baby cygnets play—I could watch them all day!
Whatever I do, when I think about you
I wonder if you think about me too!”

Yvonne sang her swan song
All the way to school in the morning
And all the way back home in the afternoon.

Yvonne loved school too.
She was a very good student.  
She studied hard for her tests.
Her grades were very good.
Her teachers were impressed.
Yvonne was helpful to her classmates.
And she was very, very, very happy.

One day a new kid showed up at school.
His name was Harry, and he seemed kinda cool.  
The teacher welcomed Harry to the class
And told everyone to be nice to him.
Harry was a little bigger than most of the kids.
And Harry didn’t smile.  He didn’t say a word.

Harry sat at the empty desk next to Yvonne.
Yvonne was excited about making a new friend.
“Hi, Harry.  I’m Yvonne.  Pleased to meet you.”
“Shut up!” Harry said.  “Leave me alone.”
Yvonne wondered why Harry was so mean.
In fact, he looked rather scary.
“Scary Harry” thought Yvonne.

Every day Yvonne and her friends would try to be nice to Harry.
Every day, Harry would be mean to them.
The only kids Harry liked were the bully kids,
The ones who were mean like Harry.
Harry was bigger and meaner.
Soon all the bullies were following him.

Every day they would pick on different kids.
One day they started picking on Yvonne.
Scary Harry taught his bully friends
An awful poem about Yvonne.  
They would shout it out when Yvonne came to school
And they would shout it out when she left for home too.

“Yvonne sang her swan song
She worked so hard all-day long.
When she came home she fell down
'Cause her legs didn’t have any bones!”

Yvonne was very hurt by their horrible, hateful poem,
And she would cry and run away as fast as she could.
Scary Harry and the bullies would laugh and laugh
And keep shouting it over again and again.

They also made up an awful poem
About Yvonne’s brother Phillip.

“Her brother’s name was Phillip.
He had such big wide hips.
When he tried to drink from a straw he couldn’t
'Cause his mouth didn’t have any lips!”

Yvonne was no longer very, very, very happy,
She felt fear, stress and sadness all the time.
Fear made her not want to go to school.
Sadness made her stop acting like her true self.

She no longer wanted to go to the park to see the swans.
Stress left her stomach in knots.
She found it hard to sleep.
What could she do?  
What would you do if this happened to you?

Yvonne did not want to be a tattletale,
But decided it would be best to tell her mother.
Yvonne told her everything.
About the new kid, Scary Harry, and the bully kids;
About them bullying her and her friends;
About the awful poems about her and Phillip;
About her fear of going to school;
About her sadness over not wanting to see the swans;
About the stress leaving her stomach in knots.
She told her mother everything,
And then she cried and cried and cried.

Her mother wept with her, and when the time was right she asked,
“What do you do when they bully you?”
“I start to cry and then run away” sobbed Yvonne.
“What do you WANT to do when they bully you?”
“I want to hit them hard and make them stop!”

With loving eyes, her mother replied
“Yvonne, I am so sorry for you.  But I know exactly what you should do.”
“Really?” Yvonne asked between sobs.
“Really!” responded her mother.  “Listen closely.”
Placing her hands gently on Yvonne’s shoulders,
Her mother kindly looked into Yvonne’s eyes and said:

“You can beat a bully without using your fists,
If you don’t react to their bullying.  
If you don’t react, the bullies will lose interest.
Don’t retaliate, or be mean to them,
Because that will only add to the problem.
Act confident, don’t be afraid.  
Bullies notice when you’re afraid.

Walk away, don’t run.  
It shows you have self-control,
Something the bullies don’t have.
Don’t walk to school alone.  
Walk with a friend.

Since bullies love secrecy, tell someone.  
Tell a teacher, just like you told me.
Even though you may feel like a tattletale,
You shouldn’t have to face it alone.”

Yvonne hugged her mother long and hard.
She was so happy she had finally told her mother.
“Let’s go to the park and see the swans” her mother said.
Yvonne, her mother and Phillip went, and had a wonderful time.
Yvonne felt like singing her swan song again,
So she sang it loud and strong
In the park by the pond and all the way home.

“Oh, lovely swan, as you swim in the pond
Your baby cygnets play—I could watch them all day!
Whatever I do, when I think about you
I wonder if you think about me too!”

The next day at school,
When scary Harry and the bully kids
Shouted the awful poems,
Yvonne remembered everything her mother had told her.
She even told her friends, so they would know what to do.
And she told her teacher too.

It didn’t take long before the bullying slowed down.
Scary Harry eventually stopped being as scary.
Yvonne was once again very, very, very happy.

She loved her mother more and more each day.
She loved her brother Phillip.
She loved her school too.
And she loved swans.
Oh, did she ever love swans!

"Sorry I'm late sir... I ran into a strange man down my street who kept following me and asking to borrow my socks. At first I ignored him but realizing he was following me to school, I stopped to question him. When I asked him why he wanted my socks, he said he wanted to smell their musky scent. I flat out asked this man if he had a foot fettish, and he guffawed telling me he had a smell fettish. I quickly speedwalked away from the freaky man and because my nerves were so jumbled, I forgot to grab a pass in the office."

Finally notices its a female substitue, and looks at classmates to see their mouths hanging open ready to catch flies

"So... I will just sit down now"

The local mall now has a Spenser’s Gifts;
I remember that place fondly as Al and I
make our way.
It’s where I sneaked a peek at Samantha Fox’s ****
for the first time,
saw my first **** ring,
wondering why anyone would want one.
I bought my first Metallica shirt at a Spencer’s;
spending twenty of my dad’s dollars.
Spencer’s and Record Wear House
were sanctuaries;
my escape from what my classmates
took for normal.
I took my son into that store
so that he could see the X-Men hats
and Deadpool shirts, the banana and pickle
pens caught his eye,
but I had to point out one more.
“What’s that one?” I asked.
Alex made a face, but in the end
he did what any 14 year old boy should,
he chuckled.
I took him in that store so that we both
could escape.
Earlier he walked the mall
a good fifteen feet ahead of us.
We stopped for ice cream.  
He chose a soda and wouldn’t sit with us.
It took a second, but
I figured him out.
He was trying his teenaged self out;
testing his wings.
As we walked, he’d wave at classmates
and be either sturdily ignored or given a cursory nod.
It was obvious that he wanted so much more.
It pained us, my wife and I.
So, I took him into Spencer’s gifts
in an effort to remove some of his innocence and awkwardness.
It may not have been the wisest move,
but at least, for a moment,
both of us felt peace.

-JB CLaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2014

You wonder why my name is spaghetti,
It's sounds funny to you.
Not quite a long story,
But it's all very true.
Our tale begins,
When I was quite young,
Right when spring,
had just sprung.
Living with my aunt,
At the age of two,
She brought me to preschool,
In her liberal Subaru.
My parents left me,
If you were curious.
They went off to help illegal-aliens,
which made me quite furious.
Anyway, when I got to my class,
We did a bunch of useless work,
While the teacher sat fat on her ***.
After reading some ****,
called Cat in the Hat,
we all went for lunch,
to eat some crap.
All was going well,
In that brick-enclosed hell,
but all went wrong with a single song.
Some ****** turned on,
Some pop music,
We all got mad,
At that stupid *****.
I had enough already,
Since my parents had left me,
And I was stuck with a woman,
Who voted for Hillary.
So I got out of my seat,
And walked right to the kid,
Took my lunch out of my bag,
And opened the lid.
Inside held the spaghetti,
That I was planning to eat.
I grasped it in my hand,
And planted my feet.
I grabbed the ***'s neck,
shoved the spaghetti down his throat,
And before I knew it,
He started to choke.
Through his espohogus,
very far down,
The blood gushed out of his mouth,
And onto the ground.
The kid's eyes rolled back,
into his head,
until they were white,
I knew he was dead.
Even though it was over,
I continued to go,
And throw his body,
Out the nearest window.
My classmates watched in horror,
as the body fell down,
Into the road,
without making a sound.
Then in the street a dump truck went by,
Running over the body,
And my classmates started to cry.
They will never forget that wonderful day.
"He killed a kid with spaghetti!"
They all started to say.

Glances in passing and nothingness,
I'll drop out and take up gardening.
And you are so cool, all German bred,
and sometimes braided. I see you, so
well-read and rather regal. ***** blonde
nuclear, alabaster, aluminum rods -
electricity dripping from the soles of
your shoes. This classroom, my own
ink blotted incubator, the radiator sits,
flatlining. Your jaw as two razor blades,
your shoulder blades, broad, gentle.

I wonder how you look in the morning,
How you look at yourself in the mirror.
Do you practice smiling, and
how often do you wash your hair? Oh,
you exist in glass, and I will not try to
know you. Leaving this poem limited,
and yet. Your jam drop mouth houses all
well-spoken soliloquies, radical requiems.

So, what would happen if we brushed
shoulders in passing? Your little accent.
Accident, we appeared in the same
huddled mass. Literary plugs in the
drain, and your new American. So,
why don't we just go walking on
airplane wings? Some transcontinental
affair. Frequent flyer *******, stranger.

Graduation day is only months away
And i'm somewhere between:
"Oh I'm gonna miss all my classmates"
And
"I'll never gonna see your stupid faces ever again, halleluiah!"

Monday.

First day of the week.

He was absent. Was he sick?

I took a glance at the empty chair.

How I wish he was sitting there.

I hope tomorrow I’ll get the chance to see him.

Cause a day is not a day without him.



Tuesday.

I came at school early,

Wanting to see him badly.

There was a sad smile coated on my face,

When I didn't see him at his usual place.

His chair was still empty.

What happened to him?

I have no idea.

I have no clue.

All I knew, I was feeling blue.

I tried to brush my thoughts away,

And just listened at the class all day.

I thought I’m okay,

That I was feeling fine.

But when I saw his chair empty,

I knew my smile was not happy.



Wednesday.

Crestfallen and disappointed.

He was still not here.

I could feel the emptiness in my mind.

Just like the empty chair in my behind.

I asked my classmates,

They just shrugged their shoulders.

I asked his friends, they don’t know why.

Soon my dark eyes began to cry.



Thursday.

Too many question popped in my head.

Frustrated and confused,

I committed a major offense.

I fled from school during recess.

I want to see him today,

To know the reason of that young man,

Why for four days he was gone.

There was no one in their house.

Only their old maid.

“Where could I find him?” I asked her.

She gave me a piece of paper.

I went home with a heavy heart.

It felt like my world was drifted apart.

I looked at the paper once again,

Tears fell down while reading them.

I don’t how to endure this kind of ache,

I kept on telling it was just a mistake.



FRIDAY.

Fresh flowers I brought,

I put them on the ground.

I smiled bitterly,

As I read his name in the tomb.

“I love you.”  I whispered.

I didn't hear anything in return.

“I love you!” I shouted.

Hoping he’ll answer me at ease.

But all I heard was the sound of the trees.

I cried again..

How many tears should I cry,

For him to come back?

For him to be with me again?

To feel his warmth.

To smell his scent.

To stare at his eyes.

It was too late.

Too late…



Saturday.

I wept until I could no longer feel the pain.



Sunday.

I did what I've done yesterday.



Monday..

I come to school.

Act as if nothing happen,

They asked me if I’m fine,

I nodded and smiled.  

While walking into our room,  

Wearing fake mask behind my gloom.

But tears fell again on my face,

When I didn't see him at his usual place.

I glance at the empty chair,

How I wish he was sitting there.

Odysseus is angry without knowing what reason scared hopeless longing not a good student teachers raise suspicions Mom claims he is mentally not right in third grade parents send him to well-known psychiatrist conducts many tests finds Odysseus’s i.q. scores quite high doctor’s diagnosis is learning disabilities emotional anxiety recommends weekly appointments Odysseus continues to see various psychiatrists all the way through college in late 1950’s early '60’s psychiatric field is somewhat unreliable one downtown child’s psychiatrist chats about other patients then gives Odysseus baby ruth candy bar another psychiatrist with office in Wilmette tells him parents need therapy advises he will someday live independent of parents free of their influences

Odysseus Penelope Ryan Siciliano play in undeveloped land across from Schwartzpilgrim’s apartment building there is big tree they often climb near corner of commonwealth and surf streets Ryan is going on about his favorite actor errol flynn and movie “they died with their boots on” suddenly two bigger older boys approach bully them down from tree Odysseus does not recognize older boys from neighborhood bigger older boys push Penelope to ground then elbow trip Odysseus punch Ryan in stomach panic shoots through all three of them bigger older boys glare down with taunting eyes after terrifying moment Ryan then Odysseus jump up flee across street they hide beneath parked cars in underground garage of Odysseus’s building hearts pound in terror hearing footsteps on concrete grow louder they hold their breaths voice speaks out "they’re not here they’ve gone Odys where are you?" Odysseus and Ryan crawl out from under cars feel ashamed of their cowardice in front of Penelope and putting own self-preservation before her protection Ryan is particularly disturbed explains his family are sicilian code of conduct Ryan insists Odysseus swear never to divulge their weakness Odysseus promises later Penelope tells Mom

harper is broad-minded exceptional school housed in old english tudor building on second floor along hall is long glass cabinet displaying among other things 9 large jars each containing developing stages of fetus girls wear uniforms of navy blue skirts with knee socks white blouses blue sweaters which are school colors boys are allowed to wear blue jeans and shirts in good taste Miss Moss teaches fourth grade classroom is duplex with stairs leading up to balcony directly under stairs is secret meeting place and beneath balcony are classmate cubbyholes there is sunroom facing south overlooking entrance stairs to school where older students hang out Odysseus thinks Miss Moss is pretty wonders why she is not married she has deep blue eyes dark thick eyebrows premature graying hair she wears in bun he has crush on Miss Moss thinks she is best teacher he has ever known she teaches greek mythology assigns each member of class character in ancient greek mythology Odysseus is appointed Hermes son and messenger of Zeus Hermes has affair with Aphrodite resulting in child Hermaphroditus Hermes also fathers Pan rescues Dionysus saves Apollo’s son there is voice speaks inside Odysseus’s head no one can hear voice except Odysseus it is voice of smart-*** disobedient twisted child when Miss Moss says “where shall we begin today?” Odysseus automatically answers in his thoughts “how about up your sweet ***?” it is uncontrollable voice for his amusement only often he tries to ignore voice but sometimes it speaks out when voice speaks out Odysseus gets in trouble his friends think voice is funny adults get offended when he reflects on classmates at Harper and distinction of their privilege he wonders what went wrong they are troubled class in fifth grade they cause miss penteck to have nervous breakdown and retire other classes produce famous actors playwrights renowned restaurateurs prosperous investment bankers leading doctors Odysseus’s class produces delinquents gangsters social dropouts drug addicts suicides they take their privilege and run it straight to hell

creature inside Odysseus can be little monster teaches Penelope how to go berserk going berserk involves entering strange residential building in neighborhood elevator up getting off about middle floor pushing all elevator buttons scrambling down stairs knocking over umbrella stands spilling ashtrays ringing doorbells pounding doors running out lobby doors escaping uncaught Penelope is good warrior princess brother and sister can be little terrors

Ryan Siciliano and Odysseus go to see “the magnificent seven” at century theater they head south along broadway street college-age girl with large bouncing ******* appears walking north Ryan and Odysseus glance at approaching girl then nod to each other no plans uttered as college girl passes both Odysseus and Ryan reach up grab her ******* pet squeeze then run do not look back keep running laughing all the way to theater they watch movie with jaws hanging open mcqueen is brilliant all seven are so groovy movie inspires both Odysseus and Ryan.

in 1960 Mom and Dad send Odysseus and Penelope to sunday school at temple shalom teacher calls him aside "Schwartzpilgrim what do you want to be when you grow up?" Odysseus answers "architect or maybe an indian warrior" teacher says "do you know story of judas maccabi? he was a great warrior leader learn about the festival of lights and wield your sword wisely Odys Schwartzpilgrim" Odysseus replies "yes sir" two weeks later he gets kicked out of sunday school for pulling seat out from under girl during solemn religious service he never learns hebrew nor is he bar mitzvahed

Odysseus is hyper-sensitive about race and religion knows he comes from race of people who once were born into slavery nazis systematically exterminated millions of them at aushwitz-birkenaub belzek chelmno majdanek sobibor stutthof treblinka black and white photographs of faces emaciated children adults flicker before his thoughts knows jews are hated not considered caucasian in europe and russia not allowed to own land for many centuries what does it mean to be member of race of people who are despised and blamed? he sympathizes with all minorities particularly negroes who were forced from homeland collared into slavery and native americans who were cheated out of land and slaughtered by white people

Every person in this world has a name. Of course, the first thing in life that makes us all different is our name. Or names, perhaps. I know someone who has four names, Marie France Antoinette Anne. I’m friends with someone who has 3 names, Eivram Jan Heaven. Even though 3-4 names are probably hard to have, it’s kind of amazing because it adds a lot to your singularity. And the best example of them all are two names, my best friend’s name is Khelsy Gayle, my eldest sister’s: Christina Andrea, my other sister’s name is Francesca Julia and my name is Kelly Denise. And we all here, don’t even bother to deny it, has a nickname. My best friend’s name is Chellsie and everybody calls her Che. Both of my classmates are both Joshua, and they only have one name, so my teacher, in order for us to not be confused, decided to call the one who has a surname that starts with C, JC and the surname that starts with D, JD and until now we still call them by those names. And in some cases, we pick nicknames by different choices. My eldest sister’s nickname is Zoe and my other sister’s nickname is Franny because my mom loved JD Salinger so much that she named my sisters from her favourite fictional siblings. Maybe my mother wasn’t expecting me, so she didn’t name me from an iconic literary character, or a famous philosopher. Instead, she called me with a nickname that I will be known till the day that I die, it’s called ‘Keidy’. And, to be honest, I hate that nickname. But hey, I have no choice. Or we can all be known for the things that we did. Daenerys Targaryen has a lot of names, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, Protector of the realm and so on and so forth. Or you can be Arya Stark, who is  No One. An example of a name that people force to be known as but they will never achieve because she will always be Arya Stark of Winterfell.

You see, names are wonderful. It's a proof that everyone in this world, is different. And what a magical thing it is, living in the same world with different people who have different views. And to mention, same views. We all here share same views, and maybe, some of us here even share the same name.

But in every woman’s life, we share the same names. People call us with names that we don’t even have. Each of us have been called or will be called these names.


You will call us, doll. You told us we have so much cuteness in us and we are as beautiful as dolls, and we don’t have any problem with that. Little did we know that some of you don’t really admire our beauty but instead think of us as toys. Toys that you can control, toys that you think would do everything that you want. You will teach us what that we should do, you will teach us what to say and how we should act, you will teach us everything like you own us. And after we do everything that you told us to you will call us good girls.  Good girl,  continue following me.  Good girl,  get ready for more, like we are toys. But of course, you will not call us toys because girls and toys are the same for you, right?

We were taught to be clean, we were raised to be pure. That chastity is the most important thing that every woman should have. And for sure, you all want our purity, but when we disagree like we were taught to you will call us prudes. ***** for choosing who I open up to. ***** for not letting you inside my temple when I am the landlord making choices.  ***** for saying no, because your ego is far more important than my consent. And when we say yes, you will call us *****. Choosing what to do to your own body is a not a thing you should do. Expressing your sexuality is a sin to this world when you’re the one who does it. A woman’s pleasure, is not a real thing. Because we’re not allowed to have one, because we are known for giving one. We are known as ******, as women who are not clean and pure. Who spend their lives offering their bodies like they're the only thing that we can offer. You will shame us for being filthy and disgusting when you’re the reason why we are here in the first place. We are here to pleasure you, to give you what you want. But when we are the ones who would like to experience it, the world suddenly goes mad. We should not experience any pleasure but they can all the time. And when we finally speak for what’s right, our names will suddenly become *******. A ***** for speaking up, a ***** for doing the thing that I should have done ages ago, a ***** for fighting back. A ***** for being strong to be able to remove the tight grip of your hands to my mouth that has been keeping it shut, a ***** for removing the word ’silence’ in my vocabulary, a ***** for being brave to destroy the power that have kept me powerless for a long time.

Woman, I agree that we should be called names. We should be known as fire, a fire so powerful that can lit up the entire world, and burn you for playing with us the entire time. We are warriors fighting for the right thing, warriors that are strong enough to combat all the wrong doings. We are magic,we can do things that everyone never expected we could. Our mind, is the most beautiful place anyone will ever come across.
We are women, and that one word, is more than enough to make people know our value. Woman, the next time they will call you names you do not approve of, tell them. Woman, the next time they lecture you with the things you should do knowing you have your own decisions in life, **** them with your independence. Woman, make them tremble when they realise you are one. Woman, prove them all wrong. Woman, the next time they belittle you; do not let them.

First Kiss (Manchester to Miami)

Rachel was a 19 year old student who attended the
Royal Northern College of Music, located in Manchester UK.
Manchester was considered the arts, media, higher education
and commerce mecca of north central England. Bordered by the  
Cheshire plain to the south, and the Pennines mountain range
to the north and east. The famous River Mersey ran along the
southern side of Manchester. Rachel was packing for winter
holiday with some of her classmates, to the warm beaches of
Miami Florida, for a week long stay in the sun, far from the
often dreary weather that settled over the UK this time of year.  
Not only was Rachel looking forward to the warm weather and
sunny skies but she was looking forward to meeting up with Daniel.

Daniel was a 40 something musician, beach bartender, handyman,
who lived just outside of Miami. They had met on a poetry website
seven months prior, and had established a warm friendship.
They communicated almost daily threw emails, chat sites
and through poetry exchanges. Their friendship had become
more romantic in the last month or so, talking that silly love talk
that new lovers used, and Rachel finished off every meeting with the
initials AKTY at the end. AKTY stood for angel kisses to you,
as Daniel liked to refer to her as his angel. they both were very
excited about the chance to see each other, face to face.

Rachel knew that the majority of Daniels poetry was slanted
toward the romance side, and she knew from their conversations
that he seemed to be educated, gentle and romantic. She was,
they were, both looking forward to spending an evening together,
holding hands,caressing each other, looking into each others eyes,
and..... that first kiss. Kiss kiss kiss kiss

hard rock guitars, lights and smoke

Kiss, that first kiss, this is what, loves all about    
kiss, your sweet kiss, makes me go crazy, scream and shout
your kiss, that angel kiss, can't live with out it, you drive me mad
one kiss, just one kiss, from your sweet lips, blows my mind real bad

don't know how I got by before you
never want to try it no never again
my darlin angel I adore you,

since I met you you know i've been

crazy, I've gone crazy, just can't get enuff, of you sweet baby
dreaming, got me dreaming, every night baby, I don't mean maybe
every kiss, like your first kiss, sets me ablaze, you know it takes me higher
another kiss, I want another kiss, turn the flames up like a funeral pyre  

don't wanna try to get along without you
never want to try it no never again
my darlin angel I adore you,
since I met you been waiting for that first kiss

Gomer LePoet

I.
My parents worry about my brother,
he gained a lot of weight during middle school, and it isn't getting better.
Twins yet, nothing alike,
I have always been small, and honestly hope to stay that way.  
This is why I worry,
worry about my brother and his health and myself, my health.
I cannot help but think,
because we are twins, one-day will it happen to me?
I'll be fat.
Is there anything I can do? I must take control. I cannot turn into him.

Today at lunch,
I watched him eat two ice-creams, I had a salad and a milk.
No one notices.
At dinner mom took away the pizza after his 5th slice.
I had only one,
but I didn’t feel hungry enough to eat more than that.
They watch him,  
what and how much he eats and the exercise he gets.
But not me,
I can take care of myself, I know that I won't get fat.
I have control.



II.
They know I'm an immigrant, my English is rough
They don’t believe I'm from Jordan
"but, Jordan is in Africa, Africa is poor."
I used to love my gold bangles
Mom asked why I don’t wear them anymore,
They distract me in class, I say.
She seems so sad, although we are doing well.
Other immigrant girls wear cheap clothes
And watch me with hateful eyes.
My classmates make fun of them
For they are sad, poor immigrants.
       What am I?



III.
I came to America, for freedom
I came to America, daring to dream
I came to America, as an Islamic Idiom
I came to America, for enlightening education
I came to America, with bright beliefs
I came to America, it seemed simple
I came to America, to be called negative names
I came to America, to learn my label
I came to America, to find fear
I came to America, only to live lonely

I came to America, not as a terrorist
I came to America, seen as a terrorist
I came to America, to leave as a terrorist  



IV
They say it is the pastor's son you need to watch out for,
They have no idea
When I first felt it, I knew what they'd say, I knew I would struggle
You are going to hell
Now I have a secret, a fake identity. I CANNOT TELL ANYONE
I'm living in hell
Whatever happened to, all are a child of God?
I'm only a child
Whatever happened to, love thy neighbor?
Oh, if the neighbors knew.
Everyone else calls him father, and so do I
But not for long.
When I come out, I'll only have my god.
Father will disown me.
I may be Catholic, and I am defiantly gay
Am I loved?











V.
Nonna?
Yes, my tosors?
What is Predu-ou-jise?
Prejudice, she sighed.

Prejudice is when they won't hire your father, because of our name
Prejudice is when your brother cannot get into school
Prejudice is when the girls won't let you dance with them.

When I arrived, I could not work
When I arrived, I was to stay at home
When I arrived, I had to be married

Out in the world, I feared for my babies.
Out in the world, no one could work.
Out in the world, we face walls.

In my casa, I raised my babies.
In my casa, I worked and cleaned.
In my home, I kept up the walls.
  
Generazione,  
You'll live with Prejudice
Don't worry, you won't find it here.    

I am Nonna, you are bambino
Italiana live with love,
not Prejudice.  

      


VI.  
There are many reasons why people get sick, but I am different, I am a sick that you cannot see.
Depression feeds off me as I lay in bed, while Mom tries to feed eat breakfast
I can't, I am empty. Empty in a way food can't fill. I am only full of junk
  I have lost myself, again behind all the junk and  I'm not sure why
I thought I was doing well But in the end, I am still just broken
Depression causes Frsuteration Anxiety starts it all,  
All day and everyday I am less less of myself
Each drug, coping method, and session
But in the end, nothing can help me
They say a person has to want to change
I have wanted  change for so long, in every way
But every day I just wait until the shadows creep up
They creep up, **** me dry, dump my body for others to find
When people find me, they are shocked, can such a smart friendly girl
Be such a broken soul with so much pain, they wonder why I hide, yet they are the reason
VII.
First it was due to stress.
Then, the variabiles made me shake
They call the variales anxiety
They said that boys dont usualy have this problem
They said the anxiety caused this problem
They said the drug would help

First it was feeling far away
Then, they upped the dose.
They changed it once
They changed it twice
They said I was showing signs of improvment
They said I could get back in the game

First I felt better
Then I felt off
They said it was whatever was left over
They said I desrerve to be healthy
They said I’m not broke
They know it’s all in my head, literally
They said I’ll get my head back in the game

First off, I hate feeling like this
Then I look in the mirror and think
How selfish
How broken
How stupid
How weak

I have one of the better situations in the world;
I am a White, Middleclass Man,
I am getting scholarship to college.
I have no reason to complain as I do,
I am fed and housed
I am a privileged person
I have freedom to swim in
I have a supportive family

Why am I so unsure?
I am taken aghast by any change in pattern,
Will I ever be emotionally stable?
Are they ever going to look at me the same?
Will my team accept me again?
Am I going to make it to college?








VIII.
no one trusts me anymore
Why do you think that?
well, pretty sure its not cause im black
Okay, so what do you think causes people to not trust you
i dont know i just a reg guy tryin to make friends
Do they think you are trying to get something from them?
why would they think that?
Because you are an addict
right…
… and…
im trying to get better honestly
Possession?
yes
So how hard are you trying?
Tyrone says i need treatment
So do I
k, but youre supposed to say that,
Yep and you are supposed to trust people that you call friends
They say those things because they care about you
k, ill talk to dad again
Thankyou, love you <3
have a good night sis.

metaphors are
rubber bands
we may extend them
as much as we like
we may shoot them
at our classmates
we may impress
our professors
with the shapes
we can contort
them into
but the more
we extend them
the more we
wear them out
and its very possible
that with all of our
stretching and extending
we could render
our metaphors
useless
*snap

My nickname for you was "broccoli".
I called you that because
Your hair is so curly
That one of our classmates
Tried to describe it and could only
Come up with "broccoli"
And somehow that name stuck in my heart.
To this day, I can't eat broccoli
Without thinking of you,
Picturing your curly brown hair
And kind green eyes
And strong yet tender fingers
And brilliant ear-to-ear smile
And smirk just for me.

I miss you. A lot.
I never told you I was in love with you,
And I regret that.
So I want to write a book of poems
And promote it far and wide
Just so I'll have the chance
To maybe catch your attention
And see you again.
Then, maybe I can tell you
"Thanks for the collection of Emerson
You so thoughtfully bought me...
That's what made me fall
Head over heels for you."

If you're expecting a regular, silly me,
well this is not for you.
And if it makes you uncomfortable,
I recommend leaving right now.
But my body
literally cannot take it anymore
and I feel that making an essay
explaining how anxiety affects me
will not only help me cope and deal with it,
but it may even help other people out there
come to terms,
or relate,
or empathize on just
what it can do to a person.
If there is only one single person out there
who finds even a smidgen of solace or comfort
in knowing that they're not alone,
then this whole essay will be worth it for me.

As you may or may not know,
I like to keep my personal life private and away
from strangers
as much as I can for the most part.

Not because
I'm embarrassed or scared of what people might think,
but mostly because I think it's unhealthy
to share every waking moment of your life
with a collection of strangers on the Internet.

Everyone deserves privacy,
and it's not something most people
even have to think about.
Never in a million years
did I ever even consider the possibility
that my privacy would be something
I may have to worry about.
So what does this have to do with anxiety?
Well,
in May of 2018,
I vanished for nearly a month.
I barely posted anything anywhere,
the only place you could have found me
was on classes.
Where I definitely wouldn't have mentioned
or talked about what was
happening to me at the time.
I did answers questions, where I loosely and vaguely
explained where I was for that time,
beating around the bush and avoiding
the exact reasoning,
but let me explain to you what happened.

Near the middles last semester, or early April,
I can't really remember,
The play and my overdue assignments
I have to catch up to,
had been tiring me
to a quite extreme extent.
And thus personally
it started to get...
insane.
No, I'm not talking about stupid essays
or poor language.
I mean exhausting,
crushing, abhorrent nature
of relationships
This includes not only relationships
between classmates and such,
but all members of my social circles:
my family, lecturers,
combined with some very personal issues
that i may or may not talked about.
I even developed multiple "voices" in my head
that was dedicated to ridiculing
my abhorrent behaviour
saying things like,
'Nobody likes you.'
'Why they would even bother anymore.'
And not surprisingly,
this completely threw me for a loop
and ever since then,
my anxiety has been
pretty much a daily struggle.
It can be anything that causes it
Maybe only a small thing, like...
being too scared to call up friends
to notify others about my sickness
because they are excited
about the play
and need my cooperation.
Or rushing out from classes and events
just because i don't want
to interact with people.
Or even more destructive behavior, like
panic attacks that wake me up at like 6 AM
and leave me shaking and out of breath
for seemingly nothing.
Or locking myself away
and refusing to interact with anyone
and just leaving myself
to my own terrible thoughts.

The cycle of anxiety
is one the worst things about it,
It's a spiral
that just gets worse and worse if you let it.
You may be saying to yourself
'Well, that's dumb, stop!'
'Just don't do it, that makes no sense!'
And you're right.
The thing that agitated me the most
about anxiety at first was the lack of being able
to find a reasonable explanation or cause
for why I feel the way I do.
Because the awful thing about anxiety
is that it's not reasonable.
It defies logic,
it is wrong.
It's a thought process and
a destructive vicious cycle
that is very hard to
wrap your head around at first
and only gets worse
the more self-aware about it you become.
Anxiety is destructive,
Crushing,
It hurts you both,
phisically and mentally,
It ruins relationships with people,
It makes you feel pathetic and lost,
It makes you feel wrong or broken,
Embarrassed and sick.

But let me tell you something;
You should never
feel embarrassed or ashamed for something
you have no control over.
Whether it's a mental illness,
your skin color,
your ****** preference...
Don't you let anyone EVER
make you feel like you should be ashamed,
guilty or embarrassed for that.

Objectively, on paper, I should have
absolutely nothing to worry about.
I have a very comfortable and safe life.
But another cruel symptom of anxiety
can be a sense of constant doubt
and worry.
Things like, my classes is doing TOO well,
My life is going TOO smoothly,
My partner is TOO attractive and TOO perfect.
Things are going too great for me,
and maybe I don't deserve it.
Even if you're joking or not,
the 'I'm stressed' thing
is something I hear extremely often.

But I remember a few years ago
when I worked in retail for a bit
Someone called me over to ask for help
I politely told this guy what to do,
as you're supposed to
and his response was to rudely say
'Well, how the **** was I supposed to know that?
I have a real job'
Now, I'm definitely not suited to retail
because I found it to be horribly crushing
but in saying that
conversely, anxiety was hardly
a problem for me at the time
It was still there,
but the difference is
I had no investment in weekend
throwaway jobs like that
So it was easy to shrug it off and forget about it

But when your life completely revolves around
interacting with an audience of people
that you are always constantly
trying to impress and make happy
because you really, really care about it
I found that I started to ignore basic human needs like...
staying healthy
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy
I now work every single day of the week
in some regard
I never switch off
I find it hard to switch off
It's always in the back of my mind
I used to take one day of the week to try
and relax and do nothing
But now I going out on that day
Which I thought would be fun
because I'm really bad at interacting with my friends
so I thought this would be the perfect way to avoid it.
But I've been met by a large backlash of people who
because I'm sacrificing even more
of my time to try to interact
and entertain my audience
and its not related with the
my current tasks at all...
I've people saying things like
'You has to get more hardworking.
do you not sympathize with others?'
You get the idea
And comments don't usually bother me,
but every now and again
there will be that one
that will catch me at the wrong moment
and will just make me ask myself
Why do I even bother?
So if getting more hardworking
results in me being able to sleep at night
and not have panic attacks
then please, somebody go ahead and
swap with me, yeah?

I do realize i was wrong most of the time,
or sometimes don't care about my laziness
but sometimes i tend to get overwhelmed
because I'm pretty "unlucky"
The truth is
I like working and talking to people.
I'm happy with it.

I used to often chat with people regularly
but that often led to times
where I forget my tasks.
where a couple of hours
would've made it that much better to me
To be honest, I m a quite forgetful person
and easily distracted with certain things cough
But going back to the main subject of the essay
I'm not talking about this
to try and get some kind of
sympathy vote from you guys.
Although anything kind or supportive
will not go unappreciated
But the whole point is
that anxiety is more common than you think
and if you've been suffering in silence
or relate to anything I've said
or who have let it gradually
build over the years and
spiral out of control like it did for me
Then please, please, please
make an appointment with your local general practitioner
and just talk about it
I know people who have dealt with anxiety
just by talking to people about it
You don't need to suffer alone
there are plenty of us out there
Seeing as anxiety is caused by
your body overproducing adrenaline
as soon as I saw the doctor
and explained my situation
he prescribed me with some tablets that lower the adrenaline output
and I've felt, like, really good ever since.
I know this has been quite a serious topic
but I didn't think wacky lines
and jokes left and right
would be suitable
for the subject matter
This has been on my chest
for a long, long time
So I'm glad I've finally got it out there
I hope this has been helpful,
interesting or eye opening for you
and good luck to all of you out there
who are dealing with similar issues.

See you soon.

Bye.

He was the best hide and seek
Player in the
Second grade
There were whispers
Rumors
He could beat the 5th and 6th
Graders
Nothing was ever lost to him
But time spent
And that was worth it

I hid and
When he found me I told all his classmates that he had stolen my lunch money.