"majors" poems
To the people who think education majors have it easy,
Nothing, and I truly mean nothing, gets under my skin more than people who have the same mindset as you.
People like you think that my 3.8 GPA isn’t as worthy as someone else’s in a different major.
People like you think education majors can’t possibly be as stressful as other majors.
People like you think that my 40-page unit plan doesn’t even begin to compare to your 40-page report.
People like you think that teaching is easy.
it's ********
I’m not going to sit here and go into detail about all of the difficult assignments I’ve had over the past four years as a middle school math major because frankly you’re just not worth my time. Also, because that would mean that I have something to prove to you, and I don’t. You can’t begin to judge a major until you have sat in on their classes, done their assignments, took their tests, etc. So, for you to judge my major based solely on the fact that I’m teaching children makes you arrogant and ignorant.
Imagine the excitement you feel when you get an A on an exam you spent days studying for. Now imagine that same excitement being stripped away from you in a second because someone tells you that your major is easy and that that’s the reason you got such a good grade.
Imagine working your **** off to earn Dean’s List every semester you’ve been at school, for someone to turn around and tell you that the only reason you’ve achieved that is because of your easy major.
It’s hurtful.
I chose to become a teacher because I want to take part in shaping children’s minds. I want to take part in making students grow up enjoying math. I want to take part in making learning fun.
I don’t think that is something I’ll ever regret, no matter how many times you try to bring me down.
Please just focus on your own major. Focus on your own difficult assignments, your own difficult tests, and your own difficult projects, that way you can truly strive for success.
And I’ll still be here, an education major, cheering you on.
Sincerely,
A future teacher.
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 6:06 PM UTC
in the somatic nervous system,
acetylcholine (ACh) stimulates skeletal muscle, causing contraction
action potentials
in the 8am physio lecture,
the biggest on campus
crammed with nursing majors,
and health science hankerers,
public health preachers,
OT saints and angels
amino acid NTs: glutamate (+) GABA (-) aspartate (+) glycine (-)
the prof wrote on a distant whiteboard
too many complained about being lost
she made a joke about feeding *******
to mice for her neuroscience research
amines: serotonin (-) dopamine (-/+) norepinephrine (+/-) epinephrine (+)
STEM-dominated
when i'm just looking
to drop my roots
and press that
good earth into
the spaces between
my toes and
under my nails
but the grounds are a garden
of biodiversity from clippings
gathered by migrant habit-clad
founders more than a century ago
the soil is fertile it is temperate
there are water filters in most residences
there is enough here for me
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 3:06 PM UTC
When I hear the words “marching band”,
I think of 4 am’s eating donuts on the bus,
Piled in big heaps to conserve warmth,
Not caring who we were laying on.
I think of lips on fire,
Sectionals that drag on and on in
The scorching sun, and staying
At attention for longer than you can bear.
I think of impossibly quick changes into uniforms,
Asking your friends to zip you up,
Band moms wiping off bibbers and shoes,
And when you’re all ready, realizing you didn’t put on your mic.
I think of falling on turf during
25 mph wind gusts, hearing the hail smash your instrument,
Not being able to feel your face,
But knowing you have to play on just the same.
I think of eating at weird times,
Breakfast at 4 am, lunch at 10 am, and supper at 10 pm,
But knowing that when you get you get a chance to eat,
The band dads have got you covered.
I think of laughing so hard on the bus
You’re crying, sobbing even, sprawled across
Your best friends, and you think you’ll never calm down
Enough to ever play your instrument again.
I think of the drum majors’ voices yelling
LEFT LEFT LEFT
Over and over again until the freshmen finally understand.
There’s always that one that never does.
I think of the moment of utter agony
Before they announce the last place in your class,
And you’re squeezing your eyes shut, praying
That at the very least, you won’t be last.
I think of that moment of utter relief
After you hear the last place in your class,
And it’s not you, and your prayers have been answered
That at the very least, you were not last.
I think of the last competition of the season,
When the seniors are bawling and it seems like
Your entire world is crashing down,
And nothing will ever be right again.
This poem could go on forever,
But finally: finally.
When I hear the words “marching band”,
I think of that triumphant moment right
As your show ends for the last time,
That last horns down,
And you know you’ve given it your all,
And no matter what your score is,
You feel in your heart that you have put everything
You have out there,
All the music, the drill, the blood, sweat and tears,
Out there on that football field.
And that moment, you can get no where else, but
Marching band.
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 5:42 PM UTC
**** men, guys, dudes, boys... in fact anything that walks on two legs and has a ***** between those two legs, or any other kind of elongated genitalia for that matter.
**** the simple ones who guzzle beer and scream at other men in a small box
**** the sensitive ones who weep at the intensity of their emotions to you
**** that cool ones who speak in a language of esoteric band and brand names
**** the intellectual ones who have their opinions shoved so far up their **** it bleeds out their mouth
**** the business types who's cool indifference is callous
**** the health-conscious gym-working-out ones who's 9pm bed time leaves you star gazing alone
**** the hippy ones who's lofty, hot air talk leaves you with a nasty feeling in your nose like you need to sneeze but it is stuck inside
**** the ones who are "different" but an trip on the bus is more entertaining than their recycled conversation
Last of all **** the decent, hard working, ones who have girlfriends that are non-flaky, pulled-together, skinny-organic-soy-latte-drinkers, only-wear-Karen-Walker, I-have-no-daddy-issues, law-majors
**** it all really
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
Please tell everyone your name, grade,
And what instrument you play.
We’re just going to go over some basics.
You can have a break in ten minutes.
Band, ten, HUT!
HUT!
Come to set!
Attention!
I said come to set!
Heels together, toes apart.
Check your posture!
Guide to your left!
No, your other left!
Your steps are too big.
No, now your steps are too small.
You have to stay at set for three minutes;
If anyone moves, we start again.
Restart the time!
Restart again!
Get your feet in time, freshmen!
Section leaders, I need to see you. Now.
Your water break is still ten minutes away.
Drum majors, go get more batteries for the met.
First competition guys, good luck!
I don’t care if it’s late, we need to learn the drill.
Someone go run and turn on the field lights!
You’ll thank me later.
First football game, good luck!
Drumline, did I say you could put your instruments down?
Trumpets, get your horns up! To the press box!
You’ll get it, don’t give up!
Last competition guys, congrats!
Give it your all and don’t look back!
Guard, don’t **** anybody with your flags.
GUARD!
Last football game, congrats!
Somebody please let the bass drums through!
Everybody give me your plumes!
Do NOT set your uniform on the ground!
I expect all of you back next year.
Thank you for giving me your best.
I apologize for when I was at my worst.
I love you guys.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 3:22 PM UTC
He builds robots
with his bare hands.
He takes the wrenches
and the electronics
and the nuts and bolts
and makes out of nothing
Something.
And even though I don’t even know him.
I think I may love him a bit.
I think about
How he puts things together that weren’t connected ever before.
Fixing that which is broken
Or unmade
Or seemingly unfixable.
And proving the world wrong when this man-made machine
is just as alive as the rest of us.
The discarded
are made
into something with a renewed sense of purpose.
Proving recycling as a totally viable concept
[and not just a fad hippies whine about]
Right before your very eyes.
And as I watch him explain
High level mechanics
to the English majors like me,
I think about my broken heart
and the inability to truly love anyone in the last five years of my life
And I think
Maybe
There’s someone out there
Who can finally fix that.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
I once slept
with a few sophisticated rats,
5 to be exact,
on a pull-out couch
from a garage sale
in corona, queens
they had ivy league IQs;
double majors in
evasion and skullduggery,
and a crush on my left thumb....
*the one you ****** on as a kid...,*
posited dr diaz,
my shrink with an md
from the lesser antilles
like freaks,
they came out at night,
in indian file...
as the raging moon dipped
below my cracked glass window,
and a cimmerian shroud
swallowed its receding light,
and I snored...
on the couch,
left thumb hanging loose
near the floor
where a heavily highlighted
textbook lay wide open...
cued by the dipping moon
or the rhythmic rasp
ripping through the room
like a stihl chain saw,
the curious 5 whisked
over the persian rug,
or was it soiled chinese?
like I said
they had ivy league IQs....
thus my heavily cheesed
wire traps
remained engaged
but cheese-less...
as the curious 5 converged
around the couch
for dessert...
~
I skipped mgmt 301 at 10
and dr diaz gave me
a rabies shot:
4 doses ig,
a sterile bandage
for my shredded left thumb,
and a referral
to his realtor...
~ P (Pablo)
(8/8/2013)
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 4:05 PM UTC
Jackie Robinson is exalted
as the first Black man to play,
but far fewer fans remember Glenn Burke,
the first ballplayer openly gay.
Like Jackie, he played for the Dodgers-
(different coast and a different time.)
Glenn came up to the Majors
In the summer of 79’
Burke was strong and tall and fast
And some teammates called him “ King Kong”
Though he roomed with Reggie Smith on the road
most nights Reggie Smith slept alone.
Burke befriended Young Tommy Lasorda
which was why he was traded away.
Old Lasorda couldn’t deal with the rumors,
Nor acknowledge his own son was gay.
Glenn Burke rode the pines while in Oakland
Billy Martin never gave him much chance
When Burke injured his leg in Spring Training
That ended his time at the dance.
He drifted, his playing days over,
He used, he stole and did time.
An accident left him a *******
Unprotected *** ended his line.
No shock was the A.I.D.s diagnosis-
His sister had long known he was gay.
When she took him in he was dying
when all others turned him away.
Sandy Alderson, with the Athletics,
took pity on Burke in despair.
The team paid for his A.I.D.S. medication
and covered the cost of his care.
Sad is the fate of the Athlete unsung,
dying apart from his team.
Glenn Burke showed that a gay man could play,
That a Gay Athlete also can dream.
Glenn Burke passed a long time ago
But his story deserves to be told.
He said when your suffering, dying of A.I.D.S.
Even days in the summer are cold.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
You are not cute Poem
3/5/2014
“You are cute.”
No.
Cute is a creature,
A little woodland chipmunk,
And I have news for you.
I don’t eat acorns or live my life in that wrong tree you’re barking up.
I’m not the poster child of a PETA campaign.
No.
Cute is a bow on a neatly packaged gift.
One with some fancy pattern.
And I have news for you.
There is nothing neat about this package, nor is it seasonal,
It won’t arrive on your doorstep for a special occasion.
I’m packaged with so many deep layers you couldn’t have it open in time for next year’s Christmas.
No.
Cute is young and unprofessional.
A little child playing with toys.
And I have news for you.
I’m not your toy.
You can’t pick me up to play, at your convenience, to then drop me on the floor forgotten.
And I’m a grown *** man – nothing cute about hangovers, hair loss, bills to pay, and unwashed laundry.
No.
Cute is not what we should aim for.
Cute is a one-liner and I am a Master’s Thesis.
Cute is what you’ll say before you cruise me online, ***** me, and then you’ll try to use me.
I’ll tell you what is cute though – you feeding me such a shallow compliment,
When really you should be treating me to the five-course conversation.
Ask me about my credentials darling,
Bachelors Degree with double majors,
working on law school and a PhD.
And finally, No.
I’m not **** *** ***** ‘tool,’ ‘trick,’ or **** either…
That’s only on Tuesdays.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
In darkened dream, my walk was halted,
confronted by a tree,
It stood upright, a branch outstretched
and blocked the path on me.
In circumventing sideways dance
I edged in grass quite slow,
but a craggy root handcuffed me,
and would not let me go.
I stood in shocked drawn silent gaze,
unsure of where to turn,
This tree had pulled me tighter now,
it fought my urge to run.
But then it spoke in ancient voice,
in tones of guttural flow.
Dark words in wood translation,
spoke of a poisoned stream below.
The leaf on every branch now shivered,
in worried recounted tale,
as it described through words so clear
what caused its bark to fail.
A darkened tale of toxic waste,
a legacy untold.
of man's destructive story,
where greed and fear unfold.
Water table now unset
In (fractured gas) halation.
Land is sold and cracked
in tempted cash flirtation
War for oil in scarlet lands,
where majors lived at base.
The youth in pointless sacrifice,
to save the political face.
Where poverty prevailed amid
abundant arable nations.
and the silent cries of children
skewed charitable donations.
Air of grey, fermented
with pollen soft pollution.
Chokes of spluttered ash,
cast doubt on evolution
This tale of woe recounted
by nature's mother-tree
with roots now losing hold
while balanced grip on me.
Swaying branch quite dangerously
in forgotten leafy youth.
this once majestic elder falls,
unburdened by this truth.
It died in pain where it had grown
drowned slow in poisoned stream.
a fading track on reddened skin
where its handcuffed branch had been.
I straightened up and stumbled on
relieved it had let me go.
My eyes in shock, slowly adjusted
To wood in flat plateau.
I cast my eyes in horizoned view
not believing what I'd seen.
The wood in matchsticked pattern
where once proud kings had been.
The landscape now lay barren,
with wood strewn all around.
The stench of rot erupted
from muddy blackened ground.
I wandered off to tell the tale,
of being confronted by this tree,
unsure of what just happened
or why it had chosen me.
I walked for miles in desolate,
through air starved atmosphere.
but met no one along this road,
a winding pot-holed frontier.
I walked until I finally woke.
in spluttered inhalation.
Confused, I feared this reality,
of earth's final damnation.
In darkened dream, my walk was halted,
confronted by a tree,
Awoke, its tale will linger,
forever haunting me
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
I gracefully begin painting a masterpiece with black and white
My fingers, the paintbrush
The piano, the canvas
Whose keys unlock a world of passion and creativity
Meandering through melancholy minor and merry majors
The keys sing melodies as my fingers dance across the canvas
Something I've learned, something that can transcend
This world of music and into the way we live
Playing music and creating music
Those are two different things
When we live life, what do we bring
Are we merely pressing white and black keys
Or are we intentionally engaging our unique hearts
Bringing color to what was lifeless, not simply playing a part
Do we live passively, or are our hearts bursting with excitement
An anticipation that the One whose Son He sent
Is going to move tremendously, is going to Open eyes for people to see
That life with Him is greater than anything the world dreams
That Only His love can satisfy the void in a soul
And that He removes skin that's old
He softens hearts that have grown cold
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
RECORD: ****** JANET
FROGMAN: BARRY BOSTWICK & SUSAN SARANDON
Brad Threes (spoken): Hey Janet.
Janet Ones: Yes Brad.
Brad: I've got something to lay.
Janet: Uh huh.
Brad: I really loved the skillful way
You beat the other ones
To the braIde's bouquet.
Janet: Oh Brad.
(Stringing begins)
Brad: The stream was deep but I grabbed it.
There's a face on me'head and you'd slammit
Family (Riff Raff & Magenta): Janet.
Brad: The future is OURS so let's can it.
Framily: (Riff Raff & Magenta): Janet.
Brad: So please don't tell me to planeit.
Framily (Riff Raff & Magenta): Janet.
Brad: I've one thing to say and that's
****** Janet.
I love you.
now,
i know three ways that love cancanflaux
That's good, bad, or gran-plan mediocre
Brad: Here's a thing to groove to that, I'm a joke'n.
Janet: Oh!......It's noicier than Letty Mungtoe had
Magenta: (Peering up from behind pile o'pew) Oh Brad.
Janet: Now we're engoraged and I'm so glad.
Magenta & Columbia: Oh Brad. (Both peer up and disappear)
Janet: That you met Mom
And you know Dad.
Whole Framily: Oh Brad. (peering up together)
Brad Majors There's one thing left to do, ah-whoo
And that's go see the man who began it
When we met in his poe-science exam-it
Made me give you the eye and then panic
Now I've one thing to say, and that's
****** I'd love you
Janet (Taking his alcharm): Geez. I've one thing to say and that's,
Brad I'm mad,
with you too.
STOP: TURN THOUGHT
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 2:59 PM UTC
Late at night when I’m alone in my cinder block room
I think about what could have been.
I think back to watching our favourite shows in a warm basement
And talking about what happened during third period last Thursday
Now I’m drinking in a dimly lit common room
Talking about what happened at that party last Friday
I like it here
But I wish I could take a break from the hazy nights filled with the wandering eyes of mysterious strangers and kisses that taste like *****
And get back to what could have been
So that maybe our eyes could have met for just a little bit longer.
On early mornings when clouds darken the view out of my window
I think about what could have been.
I think back to reading Shakespeare in the library
And wondering why the future seemed so far away
Now I’m reading Othello on an ivy and limestone campus
And that unreachable future is right now
I like it here
But I wish I could take a break from studying until the sun rises and philosophy majors slipping me their numbers
And get back to what could have been
So that maybe we could have stayed alone in the high school hallway for just a little bit longer.
On Sunday afternoons when the hallways are eerily silent
I think about what could have been.
I think back to ordering takeout at midnight
And laughing at each other’s jokes even if they weren’t that funny
Now I’m eating noodles out of a mug because I ran out of bowls (again)
And laughing at how you would be teasing me about this right now
I like it here
But I wish I could take a break from Styrofoam meals and coffee dates with boys from tutorials
And get back to what could have been
So that maybe we could stay at the diner down the road for just a little bit longer.
On Tuesdays in lecture halls where remarks on Romans echo through the auditorium
I think about what could have been
I think back to what should have been
And long for what possibly would have been
I packed my bags and headed down a long stretch of highway
You captured the city skyline with a camera
I like it here
You like it there
But I hope that one day we’ll get a break from it all
And with a degree in one hand and certainty in the other
We’ll take what could have been
And make it into what’s ours
For maybe more than a little bit longer.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC
He majors history
she, zoology,
their chemistry
incomparable,
perfect match.
Dec 3, 2011
Dec 3, 2011 at 7:48 PM UTC
I. there is a sort of ephemeral longing
you can only find in the heartbreaks of grown-up girls
(old tracks, cleaned room, messy hair, simplicity)
thinking back on the glowing days of adolescence
when bad flicks brought you places
IV. back then, the anticipation of being older was
almost tangible enough to cut
in halves, fourths and one-tenths
now the mere thought turns you off;
lemon cakes taste as bitter as the sugar
poured in your third afternoon coffee
V-III. your love of chocolate was left at the beach
along with pink heart-shaped sunglasses
(i rented that semicentennial-old russian novel
to convince myself that dreams aren't real
and until the skin breaks, your past stays intact
at least that's what H.H. taught me)
VI. looking back, your childhood was not as bad
as you make it out to be, truth be told
fascinated by your infatuation with the
place where you always belonged;
II. today the world is cold, punctuated
by the sore troubles of reality
that friends, majors and late-night talks
both compose and mend
and heaven knows how much you have to say.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 2:12 AM UTC
Child loves people
Child especially loves animals
Kid has many pets
Kid has many friends
Teenager loves biology
Teenager wants to become a doctor
College student majors in biology
College student wants to heal people
Doctorate student studies hard
Doctorate student wants to change lives
Doctor turns away those with wrong insurance
Doctor watches people die
Doctor makes private companies rich
Doctor feels sad and stupid
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
You punched your mother in the face for trans rights.
you're really moving up
found out you had ******
want to switch majors
skip town
leave your girlfriend and move in
with the affair
Good job.
you thought it was all an uphill from the bottom
like a country song
lost your grandma
lost your daughter
lost your job.
the roller coaster isn't that simple.
you'll lose your whole life here, kid.
go get tested, you'll figure it out.
smoke cigarettes, get a psychiatrist.
have another panic attack, they're good for ya.
punch your mother in the face, don't even get locked up
count the cuts on your hands
watch the blood pool around your knuckles
you did it because she wouldn't let you call your partner "they".
"Call her an It if you have to, just not they."
well you should have taken that as signature.
left her there wrong.
been higher and mightier,
but you recorded her.
caught it all on tape.
and now she's blocking the door.
She's softer than you remember
weaker
it isn't hard to get her off you
to move her
she can't hold you back.
she can't even cry.
you scream and she won't listen
still you're wrong
millions of voices are wrong to her
"society doesn't think that way nick.
YOU think that way."
"they'll stop saying they, if
YOU stop saying they."
Maybe that's why you fought so **** hard that night.
protecting the audio recording.
of you leading an army
alone
at your own mother.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 11:23 AM UTC
I'm sick of not being able to write.
I'm sick of meaningless violence in the world.
I'm sick of people needing someone to blame.
I'm sick of meaningless debates.
I'm sick of pettiness in the human race.
I'm sick of people not supporting each other.
I'm sick of people wishing others to be held back.
I'm sick of my friends dying.
I'm sick of money.
I'm sick of the presidential election.
I'm sick of these pretend Poli-sci majors.
I'm sick of humans disagreeing with each other just because they can.
I'm sick of my TV show's being cancelled.
I'm sick of negativity being the way of the world.
I'm sick of the people I love being unwilling to take a chance.
I'm sick of To Keep You Alive being unpublished.
I'm sick of being stuck on Keep Me Alive.
I'm sick of death.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 1:33 AM UTC
She deserves recognition
For her work as a technician
Who's expertise is ball bustin
Who majors in ********
Excelling in the field of advance
Hot air production
A profession heckler who
Composes an orchestra conductin
A firework show eruptin
With colorful rants red, and purples
She's acclaimed for rhetorical
Questions that repeats in circles
An elite linguistics scholar
Who's sarcasm is an accomplishment
Very talented...no gifted at making
An insult sound like a compliment
And Her stamina to do so
Is like an Olympian who's pleased
Only when her track and field
Meet of slander makes ur ears bleed
A masters degree in belittling
A graduated philosopher for the bitter
Must be a psychologist the way
She attacks my sanity to litter
Insecurities, and doubts and I
Heard she has a phd in hypnosis
Until u start to believe her ********
And this psychosomatic is ur psychosis
A world class magician who's
Tricks leave u perplexed in thought
A novelist who narrates to taunt
Controlling all characters and plot
She wrote the book on torturing
A man and emasculating him so
He may never move forward and
She was in the military I'm told
Historically known for her
intellectual Warfare
Manipulating soilders and utilizing
The grounds to ambush u there
A social tyrant who's brilliant
Political ties help her achieve
Her plan like constituents are
Biased so they're all after me
A paralegal who's unfair and lethal
And to her it's titalation
Unfair is her terms but like a
Perm ull get burned in litagation
A degree in early childhood
Education so she acts like a rebel
Perfecting being childish and
Unaffected by ur feelings on levels
Only a schoolyard bully could
Match, she's my jailhouse warden
Who's power is focused on me
Relentlessly constructing like a foreman
With Her future blueprints to
See what the hell she builds for me
Will look like, and she's also a director
In the *********** industry
So she tells in great detail
Just how I'll be ******
She must have been taught by
Peter pan how to never grow up
Trained as medic who specializes
In one area over them all
Nudering human males
So surgically she removes my *****
After she breaks them and
So I am the constant fool
This exceptional jack of trades
Makes me wish that I stayed in school
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
He awakens, sighs, bones acreak at every move.
Reaches for the boilerplate, straps on his rapier
wit (but half of once it was), takes an aching
hold of his rusty lance, and mounts the ancient keyboard.
In clattering, staccato bursts, they gallop through
acres of verse: thatches of haiku and senryu,
prim English gardens of sonnet, manicured villanelles,
and mile after mile of untamed blank verse just like this.
All along the journey, he tilts at the ogres
in his mind, swiping in steady rhythm
at possesive pronouns replacing contractions,
your/you're...their/they're...its/it's...gah!
Set to charge full speed downhill from the
Valhallan heights of two courses of college English
at unedited mounds of unexamined thoughts,
he fetches up sharply; slows to a trot, looking uphill
at the hordes of English majors
eyeing him and his keyboard
with malice aforethought.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 4:06 AM UTC
These will slap the ivory without remorse
As they dance merrily, the smooth tunes fill the air
Lucky
These
Fives
They are lucky
The 7s and minors that sound off
Clear the mind of clutter
The majors march through the gutter or society and lift up heads
Lucky
These
Fives
They are Lucky
Tickling the keys and ********* the As and Bs
They separate the great from the hate
They inspire the blood to pulse
Lucky These Fives, They are Lucky
These, Lucky Fives
Jun 7, 2012
Jun 7, 2012 at 1:41 PM UTC
While they spent a couple years in college learning calculus, I was emotionally imbalanced and so behaviorally challenged.
When I was on meds and learning music, they were learning differential equations, linear algebra, and real analysis.
When I changed majors to philosophy of religion, they were reading hundreds of math papers from journals in grad school.
When I was getting a master's in criminal justice, taking my first statistics course, they were working on their dissertation.
When I was getting an electronics degree, they were getting published and doing research at universities.
After that I started studying physics, then math.
I struggle still to finish basic Calc 2&3 problems, and find it hard to get help with linear algebra.
All I know is that my trajectory is anything but common.
And the way I cover material would not be taught in most schools and universities.
It is more like the Montessori schools: I have an innate path to psychological development, and I act freely, supposedly creating my optimal way.
Mar 12, 2021
Mar 12, 2021 at 5:10 PM UTC
Part One
We sat on a strange wooden platform
Which hung suspended
From a strange metal structure.
And we kissed in the daylight
With cars passing by.
It struck me then
That I hadn’t kissed anyone in the daylight
With cars passing by
In over two years.
And I’d never before
Kissed anyone in the daylight
With cars passing by
Who identifies as a Marxist.
Or who loves Virginia Woolf.
Or who takes her sandals off to splash in muddy water without prompting and
Without even rolling up her jeans.
Or whose love of life captures her in the same contradictions as mine.
And I haven’t written a love poem
For someone who might also be writing me love poems
In over two years
But this is it.
Here it is.
This is it,
Here it is,
In four days
We will live in separate cities
And then I might not kiss anyone in the daylight
With cars passing by
For two more years
Or two more after that but
Such a possibility strikes me as unlikely.
Not because we can commute but because you showed me
As we hung suspended on a strange wooden platform
Kissing in the daylight
With cars passing by
(As we braved the mosquito bites in that field that night;
As we waded through the creek today
While thunder cracked all around us
And rain poured down right upon us)
That I am someone who someone worth loving
Can find worth loving.
Part Two
Or hang on.
It doesn’t have to be like that.
It doesn’t have to be like kale soup,
Which has been connoted for me as representing the preservation of tradition and community while effecting radical change within the food system.
It can instead be like artichokes
Which I just like
For no ******* reason
Other than that they’re good.
We each got over 40 mosquito bites because,
While we lay in a field under the, like, five stars that decided to show themselves at the peak of the Perseides meteor shower,
We were too busy making out to give a ****
And it was fun.
It was fun, and tonight when we got dinner and you asked me to explain why I liked artichokes so much
We abandoned our tradition of narrative, us English majors, and we decided to study Sociology,
Because sometimes it’s better to look at how things are
Before you even ask yourself why.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 11:47 PM UTC
You could have reached here Wednesday by last choice
Perhaps your mood shifted. All the calm nights
you had now lay awake. You explore the city
built by the perfect people, white cathedral
stands upright on a slant, a compass buried in plain sight,
the gibberish of art students from painting lullabies as sirens.
Only children are asleep. The university
grows younger each year. The best teacher
is always late, not realizing her impact.
The person I’m most comfortable with
stays in bed. Security found indoors
the couch allures, security in the capsule,
The deafening whispers, the genuine friends
who live nearby and can’t talk straight. The blessed temple
building worshiped by advertising majors.
The lucid potential, morning sprints round the track,
a library sustained by crushed Adderall —
glowering orbs rotating back counter clockwise,
out of chimneys the black spirits climb,
detectives bicycling, the honor students rummaging
for class notes in the deep end of the dumpster.
So this is college? That frontier plateauing
before you can dive off a cloud? So this utopia
was a dollhouse, the daily on the doormat
camps in the hallway: waits while the child watches
a sit-com?
Don’t apartments stand still? Are abstract paintings
and basketball supposed to nurture a city,
not only Richmond, but also other lonely cities
of misunderstood brunettes, dank **** and dubstep
the weekend will seldom put out
until the city you moved to shuts its eye?
Just tell yourself, “live.” The best teacher, eighteen
when she moved to the university, still grins
even as she coughs out fiberglass. Any day now,
she sings, I’ll take a drive and leave this place.
I pull her close and say. You haven’t slept in your own bed.
The boy who you’ve always loved still thinks about you.
The books you read before breakfast,
whoever the author may be, inspires
and your least favorite student who raises her hand
is judged but her posture never falters.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC