My Favorite Pokemon as a kid was always Squirtle,
I always named him Squirter,
Not knowing anything about how ****** it sounded with my 7 year old mind,
I was always in the backseat of the car saying things like, oh no Squirter died,
or yes my squirter learned hydro pump!
and my favorite, I’m gunna give my Squirter one rare candy.

I always caught girl Pokemon,
Mainly because the symbol for the Gender looked unique to me..
So I would never catch Mewtwo because it was never a girl.

Once I learned you can cheat in Pokemon,
I was getting ready for every gym leader like a high schooler preparing for Spanish Test.
Pokemon levels the same number as the grades of the Spanish Test.

As time goes by you can realize pokemon can be like friends, you can’t catch them all, especially when their falling.

The very first thing I learned about you was your ex-communication from Mormonism. Did you really try teaching a preschool class that Jesus was a Rastafarian? Or was that one of your many big fish tales told to me over the years?

This was when you were only a mischievous high-schooler. Not the cynic you are today, worn down after choosing the safest choices life can offer. When did a clever person like you acquiesce to such homogeneity? Somewhere between your Economist-reading days in undergrad and law school? I know you claim the reason was something about getting your heart broken one too many times. And yes, I know I whacked it around like a pinata... as you did mine. Because that's what reckless kids do. Will you ever accept this as an excuse? Or will you always use it as the reason to avoid my calls?

Back at the age of 15, though, you could do no wrong. A shy smile was all you'd see from me, but I'd go to bed dreaming of all of the clever things I wanted to say to you. My friends would later say you exploited your teaching role as my debate tutor... but me? I was totally, utterly, and blissfully enamored by your explanation of Foucault and FoPo. I'm convinced the reason you fell in love with me was because I wrote a letter to Crayola pretending to be 5 in hopes of getting a free pack of crayons. You liked that kind of smart *** behavior because it was the kind of stuff that made you come alive. Which reminds me... do you still have the "#1 bestseller" sign you swiped from the grocery store? You wore it in your back pocket while wearing your "I spoil my grandkids" t-shirt.

How appropriate that our first kiss was on the debate room couch. I'm glad kissing was, in fact, better for you with your braces removed. And how appropriate that my first date was you taking me to the high school musical, "Kiss Me Kate."

What is it about first loves that make even the most mundane so magical? I can't tell you the number of times I looked out the window in hopes of seeing your red Ford Escort pull up. It took my breath away more than any Mercedes could. Who knows what we'd do when you did come over--probably play Donkey Kong Country, or watch some ironic movie like Donnie Darko. If nobody was home we'd make out to the Disney "Fantasia" soundtrack.

Back then you were always intrigued with the whimsical. Nowadays it's 1940s classics, malt scotch and Coachella concerts. I think your career ***** you so dry of life that you overcompensate with your expensive tastes. The wildest you'd ever get was smoking a hookah. But the guy I remember? He liked pocket watches, Rufus Wainwright, and Harry Connick Jr. I know you're a responsible tax-paying adult now, but I still see you as the wild-eyed wholesome troublemaker you once were. I prefer you that way, even if it's mentally dishonest of me.

Since you, men have wined and dined me at world-renowned resorts and have taken me to presidential *****. But none of these dates have given me the same rush of euphoria as sneaking out and spending the night with you in the home you were house-sitting: That night, we were a pair of 16-year-old rebels. At least we didn't get caught by the cops making out in the high school's agriculture department parking lot. That would happen in a few months' time.

Then you left for college, to gain an education and have experiences that sounded overwhelming for my sheltered ears. It didn't matter that I left for Europe that year--you had left for college, which was a distance in my head that couldn't be measured geographically.

I could recall a thousand barbs exchanged from then until we both finished college: you dated her. I dated him! We made promises. We broke promises. You'd come home for summer. We relished in the relatively new-found art of *******, mostly perfected on each other in our youth. We'd hate each other. We'd love each other. Your friend would hate me; my sister would hate you. On it would go.

But there were such sweet times. We saw Harry Potter together and we sat on my roof, imagining that one night could stretch til forever as we looked up at the stars. It was then that you dedicated Coldplay's "Yellow" to me. And no expression of love was greater than seeing you in the back of the auditorium, waiting to drive me home after my 6th period drama class.

I honestly don't know the person you are today. Sure, you give me snippets. Usually when some girl breaks your heart and you need to vent. In truth, I know you saw me as your plan B. Always. Shame on me for playing that part so beautifully for so long. Could we have worked out, you and me? I smile, knowing that some things from the past should stay firmly rooted where they are. There would always be a part of me that would feel like that freshman trying to impress you, a senior. All the while I wouldn't feel funny enough, cool enough, witty enough by comparison. No, we simply wouldn't work.

You know the rule, about loving your family because they're the only one you've got? I think the same is true with first loves. When I reflect on our oh-so-ordinary relationship, you--I mean, US: we weren't so great. Nothing special.

But my heart sure seems to think you were... even after all of these years.

He walks up to me and says, “bro if you think about it, Israel is like racist”
Immediately the urge to pass my fist down his throat comes upon me
But, we’re at school, so I decided to bite my tongue instead of his
He continues to try and tell me everything that is wrong about my home, my home, my home
After his first words, my mind goes into a flashback to my home:

Serenity
Steel and rubber wheels, trudging along earth’s edge
The wail of a young infant, piercing the atmosphere like a pin drop in silence
The pop in my temples
Pressure on my skull
They both splice my silver-lined thoughts and urk my discomfort
The dry air strategically carves cracks onto the surface of my lips so that they are no longer an instrument of communication, but solely a burden on my comfort

All components of hell build walls around me
But serenity knocks at my door, I am finally home

“Dude are you listening to me?”
I awake from my coma, to the pure sound of ignorance
Here stands a boy trying to tell me my muse I use to live by is a lie
Here stands a white privileged boy who thinks he knows the answers to the world because he can read a ******* text book

I regained consciousness..
He says, “Anything to say, bro?”
I thought to myself, I can stand here for hours and try to explain
Who the hell are you to waste my time


I lost the switch somewhere during the conversation
The moment in which black changed to white was blurred
But I know one thing
I know one thing better than I know my own soul
I know that the world was serene when I touched ground at my home

I stood in front of him and started to begin laughing
Each chuckle was enough to make the world dance on stilts
It crawled up to every nook and down through each crevice of the room
The understanding he gained realizing I would not let his ignorance get to me
I stood there and laughed, I had no reason not to
To be alive was a reason to laugh
To survive the persecution of my people, was a reason to laugh
To survive the countless pennies being thrown at me, was a reason to laugh
To survive being told you’re a jew, you’re not good enough, was a reason to laugh
To survive being called a ***** ******* jew, was a reason to laugh
To survive being thrown to the ground and called a ****, was a reason to laugh
To get back up and RISE, was a reason to smile.

Intro: You know, I don’t care what you’re saying about me.
For I’m not an insecure ***** like you but I do got to thank thee.
For if it weren’t for thy vile venom spitting I wouldn’t have a reason to enact my lyrical terrorism!
So, you only have yourself to blame for this ****, so don’t say I didn’t warn ya.

Verse 1
Uh, yeah let’s talk about it!
Can’t contemplate, the vicious state that contrary to popular belief I’m not a basket case!
Can’t misuse the time I got so here I go to vanquish these fraudulent thots!
Started an unfocused freight train that charged towards the lucid dream because I couldn’t assimilate!
In that time, I was so focused on changing everyone’s snot ridden hypocrisy about reality being Camelot.
I know I’ve also ****** up a lot but that’s something I had to face!
It’s not any of your business so stop ripping off my skin then rubbing in the salt!
I still have a goal in mind to destroy discrimination that incriminates my people,
by putting em on the hot seat.
So now that every one is up in arms I got my chance to aim at the sweet spot!
Everyone is hungry to be the fittest but not everyone has time to think how to be the smartest.
To strike will the fire’s hot or wait for the embers to spark and settle is the true test for an artist.
Who cares about the lines when it was never rightfully drawn in the first place?
Who cares about what spot or space is for you when it’s all been delegated to the privilege of a certain race?
I can only undergo so much disgrace So, sorry but I’m not willing to have my people’s history erased!
Free speech is going to be a ***** for some and a tool for others, I guess it all depends on that person’s poker face.
Inequality is frequent not just in Canada or The United States but every country, province, and common place.

Verse 2
You want the real, raw, unfiltered Classy J well here you go!
Uh, Tell Trudeau to kiss my *** and stop ******* Trump’s ****!
While you’re at it can you tell your father that he’s a ******* stupid *****!
Also, totally forgot but can you tell Kim Jon un when he’s shafting you that he’s a ******* Buffoon!
But’s that’s enough about ******* politics let’s talk about ******* rap artist’s who think they’re hot but really, they so tacky and obsolete like the Zune.
To mister bi-racial we get it you’re into being superficial but’s honestly with you being so focused on being a ****** your delivery showcases the truth that you’re really a cringy ******.
Just face the fact dude that people will only see ya as a juggaloed Dolph Ziggler.
Uh, Now on to the next!
Dear mister Young moolah imma be front, you look like diseased uvula with the lyrical skill comparative to that of an elementary grade schooler.
Now to address the biggest flacky ***** in the game the not so slim shady.  
Here’s the matter Mr. Mather’s you look like a hobo who ***** guys off around the corner,
maybe that’s why you always diss homos.
Because youse a **** trapped in your mommas’ closet,
and if wasn’t for Dre’s hand up so far up your *** you wouldn’t be as popular of a puppet.
Oh ****, Shady you so focused on Doctor Dre and acclaim to fame that you forgot about Hallie.
****, and speaking of Hallie, I feel for you girl because just like you I also didn’t have a dad there for me.
I’m a man of war so every rapper got to get their **** together and better be prepared to me seriously.
For Imma slit their throats and turn em inside out rigorously, and I make sure those tardy cats will rule the day they ever had curiosity.

Verse 3
Just remember my people were here before you, and will be here after you!
And I’ll be here to destroy any of you who dare to pursue native issues!
Or if I’m just bored and feeling like killing you!
However, if I forget about dealing with you, I’m just to busy to properly give a **** about you!
It’s not just revenge, I see it as using justice by retorting with my wordplay to cleanse ya like shampoo!
But I’ve spent enough time dissing freeloaders, for it gives their ego’s too must **** exposure!
I won’t coaster to these composers, for a chauffeur can’t gain an advantage over a soldier!
I wont lower myself to these grouchy Oscar’s, who hunt for Grammy’s;
or as I refer to these events as pedantic half ***’d statements for excepting grandiose toasters.
Why bother, for it’s so annoyingly stupid that I would rather waste my time watching a movie featuring Adam *******.
So, **** this glass ceiling that defines and dictates what makes up a talented rapper.
I may not be a ******* goat but at least I’m confident enough to go out in my birthday suit and retain my composure for being dapper.
That’s the synopsis of my classy brain, and though it may be insane I’m willing to ride this hurricane!
To make sure you know my name, but yet not let myself get engulfed in the flames.

Cyber Bullying Poem
2/6/2014

Let's talk about cyber bullying.
I wonder if you instantly thought,
"Oh gosh this is gonna be intense."
Well maybe, maybe not.

Some forms of bullying aren't intended to be intense.

Sometimes bullying comes from the smallest things you can do to someone.
Sometimes bullying just takes a minute to type and press send.
Sometimes bullying just takes another minute to close your web browser.
Sometimes bullying just takes a third minute to walk away fine.

Bullying is possible in just three minutes:
send a comment to anyone anywhere in the world
ruin their day.
destroy their confidence
personally insult someone you don't know personally
influence their minute, hour, day, week, month,
life, suicide.

But this poem isn't about suicide,
it isn't about life or death.
It is about those small things you say to someone on the internet,
without ever realizing
you are a cyber-bully.

This poem is about the time I met an internet troll.
Someone who says things in chat forums to elicit an elevated response.
I was in middle school, one of three Jewish kids.
I posted on a forum about video games,
and for some reason
another middle schooler on the same forum as me,
somewhere unknown in the world,
posted off topic about how the Holocaust was great for population control.
*******.

This poem is about the messages you get on your dating profile,
that just say "hello" or "hi."
Because you took the time to fill out and divulge personal information,
and the best they could come up with was a measly greeting?
26 letters, 10 numbers, and 46 other keys at your disposal,
with unlimited time
no pressure at all,
but you'll use a hell of a lot more keys when you retaliate to my angry response.
*******.

This poem is about the debates you get into on FB.
someone posts a provocative status about cultural misappropriation
or about how English should be the national language,
and you respond unable to resist,
trying to keep it professional and scholarly,
citing sources doing your thing,
until they make a personal insult,
unrelated to the debate topic,
maybe about your political orientation or religious beliefs.
*******.

This poem is about the person who you were supposed to go on a date with,
but they told you about how they once got upset at their ex,
and posted their photos on Craigslist.
******* and no thank you!

This poem is about the poems that I've posted on my blog,
that someone out there thinks are open to public criticism,
as all art should be they said.
Maybe if I was published and making money, sure?
Maybe if I actually thought your opinion was valuable?
Or maybe, just maybe, you could be a cyber bully.
Spewing your **** like the internet is your personal toilet seat.
*******.

This poem is about the minutiae,
the minutes in which someone can damage you,
because your screen on your computer has no filter,
it won't protect you from the cyber bullies,
who say small comments that make a big impact.

No happy inspirational ending,
other than that I hope they read this poem on the internet,
and maybe feel a little bullied themselves.

Dear "adults",
I hate it when you look down on those of us in high school,
As if there's some sort of unspoken rule
That the time we spend in such a place
Is supposed to be sublime.

"Stop complaining."
I'm sorry, I assumed that when you asked about my day
I wasn't supposed to mask what I say
And tell you that everything is swell.

To what extent will you dismiss my discontent
Toward the discipline with hardly any discipline nowadays?

"You'll miss it. Just wait until you get into the real world."
The "real world"?
Why, suddenly, is my world not real enough for you?
From all I've been through in my life,
High school has presented me with the most strife, and so
Since when is a bit of resentment
Unjustified?

The nerve you pride
Yourself in having, presuming
That there is any amount of artificiality in my reality
Is infuriatingly consuming.

How can you think we could make any sense
Of the difficulties surrounding anything but what we've experienced?
This I cannot comprehend.
But maybe you want us to pretend?

"How was school today?"
Oh, it was okay.
I only dealt with misunderstanding,
The pressure of classes being so demanding,
The difficulty of self consciousness
That is amplified each day by bullies' relentlessness.
I only endured mental exhaustion
From switching subjects each hour, without option.
I simply struggled with your expectation
That colleges should long to give me an invitation,
Even though I'm being forced to commit to
A life plan I've made based off the little I've been through.

School is a privilege, we know,
Yet, so is possessing a job.
So why, then, am I a snob,
When you're allowed to 'complain'?

I realize that life could be much worse for me,
And someday high school might seem like a breeze,
But until the day comes when I become aware
That the troubles of high school cannot compare,
Let me have my time to vent, please.

high school *****
there is NO doubt about that.
there are bullies
there are jocks
there are band nerds
and then there is you.
it feels like everyone hates you,
at times.
but it does get better.
life goes on
and you will forget,
forget about
the bullies
the jocks
the band nerds,
and every other high school
*******.

sometimes when i am trapped inside my own mind
and feel like i’m drowning in the taste of air,

suddenly i am eight years old years,
bobbing up and down in my wimpy life jacket
my legs unsupported

and there is still a chip on my shoulder
a mile wide.

sometimes i am still the five year old who balled her eyes out
when her parents accidentally forgot and were late
picking her up from preschool,

sometimes i am still sixteen years old and in love with you
sometimes i am a person i never thought i’d manage to grow into,
sometimes i am a person i’ve yet to become.
  
i am juxtaposition of a thousand different versions of myself.
i am equally the eight year old girl still afraid of the water

as i am the almost-adult you so naively believed to be fearless,
my self-assurance a really good halloween costume.

i am a newborn at the same time
as i am frail ninety year old grandmother.

i am brave and i am terrified
and i am naive and i am jaded
and i am clean and i am ruined;

i am a blank slate and i have been scribbled all over,
my skin is smooth and untouched
my skin has laughter lines and stretch marks.

i am the creator and i am the destroyer,
i am everything and

nothing at all.

i am the ocean
and i am the desert.

my lungs are failing as i’m breathing fine,
and i can see the end and the beginning in equal clarity.

sometimes i’m too old for my skin,
weary like i’ve lived a thousand lives already

and sometimes i am four years old with
my knees hugged to my chest.

sometimes we are two and sometimes we are twenty,
sometimes we were nine and sometimes we are ninety.

we are young and dumb and reckless at the same time
as we are old and wise and careful.

sometimes my father is still a gap-toothed five year old
and my mother is still a tired old woman

with shaking hands,
and my brother is still an angry teenager with a bad hair cut.

we are existing simultaneously
and growing up is just getting really good at pretending

that you’ve got your **** all figured out
when you still feel like a lonely middle-schooler
without a date to the mixer,

alone in the middle to gymnasium floor.

but that’s the thing, isn’t it?
when you are cut open, when you are bleeding,
when you have gaping holes in your nervous system

your flesh heals over
it scars, brand new.

we are bleeding and we we are healed,
we are ******* up

and we are doing just fine.

I know this doesn't get me any promises of forgiveness, and I know how much things have been a mess lately and I refused to deal with it. But there are things I should have said instead of counter-arguing and berating you.

I've forgotten to tell you how I've been so excited to learn coding because I like to think it gets me a little closer to you, maybe even lets me understand you a bit more.

I've forgotten to tell you how though I have trouble sleeping having you beside me really comforts me, and though its beyond creepy I'll look at you to feel better.

I've forgotten to tell you how I love going to the movies with you, and hearing you get excited and involved in the story, and its like you forget all your school troubles for awhile, something I seem to have forgotten to do.

I've forgotten to tell you how I'm stupidly afraid to ask you to do things, like kiss you til we're dizzy, giggle til our cheeks hurt, or have really good *** (thought about that a lot today, but I was too much of a ******* to say something).

I've forgotten to tell you that you light up my day, and though I'm a moody ******* even just being around you helps. I know I don't act like it, but it does, so I need to get some ***** and just ask you on a date like a middle schooler and get that out of the way.

I've forgotten to tell you how I started a new novel, and that my mood diary has been going up lately in moods. That I was really hoping that at least my time with you next week won't be so bad.

I've forgotten to tell you that I want us to play mass effect, even if it means I'll swoon over Garrus half the time. I promise all my kisses are reserved by you.

I've forgotten to tell you how worried I've been for you, about your friends being more distant. I've been trying to just let you do whatever, at my own expense. Alone time is great (especially for these poems and homework and figuring out that new novel) but I should have been more open about it. Communication is key, especially for us, and I should have been more open about things.

I've forgotten to tell you how afraid I've been of being lost without you after next fall, but I just need to get my ***** in place and enjoy my time with you. Its silly to ruin time you have for some separation in the future.

I've forgotten to tell you that you look so **** sometimes, but I don't want to bother you because I know school worries you. And I know that goes with the bad communication stuff again, and I need to get my **** together, because I know you wouldn't mind a **** time or two.

I've forgotten to tell you that I really love horror movies, especially bad ones, and I really love Photoshop, and I really love tech at the moment, and I really love Diablo 3, and I really love spending time with you and yes I agree alone time is good and I shouldn't get angsty at bad times and make you think I never want you alone. I need to get my afraid bar to cool its rollers.(PS that's my new favorite phrase) You are my favorite person and I should and want to tell you everything. I need to get this together.

I've forgotten to tell you I've been trying to lose weight again, less because I hate myself and more because I want to look hotter for you, and have been eating less sweets and less food in general.

I've forgotten to tell you I want to learn to make paper cranes and watch gargoyles and be more in-tune with you. I'll watch Super Troopers, I'll even watch Master in Disguise, if you truly want to. I can't just say no to everything you want to do together. Why? Because if I always say no to together things, you'll start always doing them alone.

I've forgotten to tell you that your scruff is adorable and its kinda hot you're a little taller and your hair is beautiful. That I love goofiness and tickles and nose kisses and **** grabs and making you smile. I know I've messed things up but I want to all I can in my power to get it together, because you are special. You once told me you were like a shooting star and hard to catch and I rolled my eyes, but you are. I love you and have never met someone like you before.

I've forgotten to share my stories and my life and all the things that made you love me and even me love me, and I'm going to fix that. I will not sit by and let you forget me.

One last thing.

I've forgotten to tell you I love you oodles, and that will never change.

Another day
Another paper
Another test
Another way
To fix this mess
Another class
Another offer
Another teacher
Telling me I'll do great
Another college
Another price
Another world
One that I'm afraid of
Another day
I wake up
Another night
I go to sleep
Another test
I have to pass
Another paper
I have to write
Another style
I have to try
Just to try to get
Another college acceptance

At night I like to rest my fingertips on the protruding hipbone that is still covered by a fleshy layer of cushion. Of fat.
Why do we shy away from that description so often?
Fat.
Those three letters haunted me more than anything for the past 7 years, and I would hear it all too often.
And when I didn't hear it, I'd see it in their eyes.
I was not like the rest of them.
No Abercrombie for this pudgy middle schooler, and no eating candy unless I wanted to be ridiculed and stereotyped.
But not until my senior year of high school did it finally get to me.
I stopped eating. One almond at most and nothing else.
Fat.
Fat.
Disgusting.
Shameful.
Ugly.
All synonymous in my head.
Now it's completely different.
I embrace my beautiful body.
Every curve, every scar, every red engrained stretch mark.
I wear them with pride.
I take off my shirt for my lovers without fear or shame.
My body is bigger than societies idealistic and impossible standards of beauty...
And thank
God
For
That.

The outside of the China teacup,
Chipped and cracked but still standing up,
Straight
Vines wrap round the China glass like hands wrap round my throat
Bottom bears coffee stains and teabag remains, like a sad girl who bears her scars
Brim has a special need for a lips touch
like a middle schooler has for lunch

Today,
It holds a special type of poison
The type of poison that hurts before you drink it
The type of poison that isn’t really poison poison
But the type of poison that you pour inside me
and the sad thing is
is that I love your poison
And I’ll drink your poison everyday until you stop giving me poison to drink

Hi Mom,
I've been trying to tell you and I already have, but you took it as a joke and when you ask questions , you've always had this tone of disapproval if I said yes. But mom, I'm a guy. Not a tomboy girl but like an actual guy that's just stuck in the wrong skin.
I don't want to be known as a girl. I never have because it's not who I am. I'm not your daughter, or Ali or anything that has to do with being a female. I'm pretty sure you could sense I wasn't ever a girl anyways. I've always wanted to be and act liek Sean and Dad. Not how you or Grandma would act. I want to be your other son, Jamie. That's who I am. That's who your youngest kid is Mom.
I feel super awkward whenever we go shopping for clothes because I don't belong in the girls section. I want to wear mens clothes mom, mens shoes and keep my super short hair. Because I'm me whenever I get the chance to wear mens clothes and be looked at as being a boy. And in public, when people mistake me for a guy, I actually really like it because that's who I actually am.
Mom, I'll be a high schooler next year and I want to be known as Jamie. A guy. School would be a lot easier and better for me if I was known as and reffered to as a guy. Plus, I wouldn't get second guessed all the time if I were a guy. And I know you'll probably say, "No. I'm not going to call you Jamie or male pronouns and you're not going to dress like a guy." but mom, this is who I am. And I'm going to be me, no matter what.
I love you a lot mom, and I would've told you sooner or later but now I can live as me and not have to worry about being a girl. I'm still your second kid too, I just go by a different name and gender now. And to be fair, you've never really had a daughter in the first place, just a son trapped in the wrong skin and clothes. I love you and am glad I can live my life as me.

Love,  Jamie

If nothing is for certain,
then why is certainty the only emotion I feel with you?
Heart beats skipping like grade schooler's hopskotching on my ventricles
I was, I am, enamored that I, a once heartless being, could feel this way.
Uncertainty is the only thing certain to drown my thoughts
But if nothing is for certain,
how can I be sure that my thoughts are even real?
Who decides what is right or wrong, true or false, real or fake?
Because if nothing is for certain,
I say with great uncertainty that I indeed do like you.

I stopped commenting on airy internet objects long ago
lest it be a needed praise of some starving artists’ work
or in response to a worded response of my own work

It’s just such a waste of time to tell a million view band
they “rock” or they “****”
All I will incite is defenders or refuters of my claim
who are just as petty as me

As an immature high schooler, that’s just what I wanted
The modern version of my dead grandfathers
with their white shirts, blue jeans, and duck *** hair
Driving from the city to hick school dances
just to pick fights

I once typed lines of **** talk on Elvis videos from the 1970s
just to see what would happen
- Nothing much
My grandfathers are dead and no one’s left to defend The King
I’m not so tough, but I felt scrappy then just the same

Now, with my lowly little job
my first world laptop and my glasses
Sipping coffee and mellowed out
I read some comments to see what people feel
about an article on my generation
How we’re more corporate than ever
bamboozled by a guise of fake uniqueness

Sure, I agree with the critique in the article
if you can even call it an article
People get paid for three lines of an opinion,
sometimes a link, and then the real entertainment's in the comments
Where can I get in line for this ******* job?
Not the commentors, their labor’s free
I mean the three lines guy, it sounds too easy

“Don’t ya get it yet, son”
My grandad chuckles
“His job’s just corralling all those comments,
inciting easy debate,
and getting advertising clicks”

He shook his head
went up through the roof
and his twenty-year-old jeans
ended in a wispy swirl
But I couldn't help noticing
they were name brand

If I hear ...
Your daughter outside screeching
I know she didn't blackmail you with her tantrum
You showed her you can't get your way all the time
She's learning it doesn't work like that

If I see you ...
Taking your daughter by the scruff
Dragging her from a bad news party
I praise you, she has no idea whats she's doing right now
You are keeping her safe

If I hear you ...
Remind your son he forgot his manners
Rude to the lady at reception for waiting too long
She is trying to help you
You are showing him honey will get you more than lemons ever will

If I see you ...
While I'm driving
Fumbling across the road toddler in hand
Pre-schooler behind
On your way to the park
You know what they need
And I think you're just awesome

Being a great parent is hardwork,
Never apologise for trying
You are my Hero

these anchors on my feet
are all that are holding me
they are too heavy to move

each time i try
they slip out of my hands.
too heavy and too slippery.

these weights are holding me back
making me stay when all i want
is to spread my wings and fly.

but my feet are anchored.
my wings are tied together.
i'm stuck.

these steel ***** hold me here.
each time i try to leap forward
i'm pulled back and slammed back down.

how much longer must i be a prisoner
a prisoner of my own life?
how much longer must i be pulled back
and thrown back into the same cell
before i realize i must be patient?

i'm a prisoner in my own life
and yet i can't free myself!
my feet are held to this earth
by the titanium blocks
of a high schooler's reality

Does a sociopath love?
does the child who pinches the girl sitting next to him in kindergarten?
The tongue tied middles schooler
hey.. uh.. um.. I was like... well.. just wondering... You wanna like maybe... dance or something
the text recipient writing four drafts of his response reading:
what are you doing this Friday night?
The jolt of lightning which rips through his body
a current sent from her through their clutched hands
or the girl who blushes when Prince tall, dark, handsome, and charming
looks her in the eye and smiles
we all stand on the edge of the cliff
waiting to be pushed
praying that they are there when we hit the ground
with a hug, a coffee, and a thick blanket
we all want somebody to love us in the ways we could never love ourselves
so we might be complete

Grade-schooler Tito loved going to school
To learn division and multiplication.
He tried to ignore the violence around him
But lived each day with trepidation.
He cut through an El Salvadorian town
To get to his school—a daily trek.
He constantly encountered violent street gangs—
Each frightful day a reality check.
One day Tito failed to come home.
The next morning grimly revealed
The poor school child’s dismembered body
Lying in an abandoned field.
 
Lucas and Marco feared for their lives,
In their small town in El Salvador,
Where violence governed their daily existence
As ruthless street gangs carried out their war.
When the boys’ mother was gunned down before them,
Fearing they’d be next, the brothers thenceforth
Left their home and their few belongings
And started on a long journey north.
Traveling hundreds of miles with no money
To leave a place of chaos and disorder
Would be a daunting task, along with
The added uncertainty at our country’s border.
 
The gangs in Honduras recruit young children.
In Guatemala they do so as well.
Some kids as young as eight or nine
Serve as drug runners from what we hear tell.
Two of the Central American gangs
That helped to create this horrible mess
Were not homegrown entities at all
But got their start HERE in the U.S.
How sad it is to see children suffer!
How helpless one feels in solving the matter!
But merely doing lip service with no action
Means nothing; it’s worthless. It’s just idle chatter.
 
Who are these children, fleeing their homes—
Fleeing the lands where violence reigns?
Who are these kids whom the world has let down—
Whose hope for escape is all that remains?

- by Bob B

When will it get better Leona?
You say "It'll all get better in time", however
I wait for that day.

I wait for the day that I'll be able
to smile without a ounce of anger
behind it.

Without an ounce of anger towards you. I am
realizing now I am learning to forget.
I do deserve to smile. I do deserve someone who
wants to dance with me. Or share a cup of coffee with me.

I deserve someone who will move around the country with me.
Who will raise my children with me. Not someone who uses excuses
instead of the honest truth. Not someone who acts the way you do.
Like an immature high schooler.

Sometimes I wonder how long I can get by being alone. Being my own rock to lean on.
I am sick of looking for him. He'll can come find me for a change.
I don't deserve to be with someone who makes me happy. No.
I deserve to BE someone who is happy.

doesn't it haunt them at night
that they're doing nothing?

shootings every other day
innocent children just want to learn
instead, they're shot
and all they do
is send thoughts and prayers?

people are dying
and they say 'what a shame'
instead of taking action
because it's against their values

seems like maybe
they should take a deeper look

don't they want this to end too?

I never saw you when you were alive
Not really alive anyways
With flushed cheeks and smiling eyes
But I think how you must've done well
As I watch your daughter stroke your hair
Like its the finest silk she'll ever know..
It seems I never got to hear your voice
Not your real voice anyways
I spoke to you like thunder
Hovered over the hospital bed
And you pattered back like an on and off rain
Uncertain of where it might land
Libby,
That's what everyone calls you
Well Libby,
I so wish we could've met under different conditions
I imagine you're wishing for much more
But this is it
Here you are
Sitting at the stoplight
And green isn't coming
I never did see fear in your eyes
But it could've been buried
As you looked to your family
And saw how fear had furrowed into them
Like watching your parents walk away
On the first pre-school drop off
(We all wanted to cling)
But it's your turn to be dropped off now
And the territory is unfamiliar
Once, you bathed and diapered children
Who now do the same for you
Just know, Libby, you are still dignified
And though we don't think this future will come until it's breathing down our neck
We wouldn't talk about this future without sarcasm
It is a future a majority of us will endure
It's funny how
We tread lightly on the word death as though it is hot coals beneath our feet
As though death could be separate from life
Or you and I could escape it
Libby, I'm sorry to tell you
There is no yin without the yang
The tables don't stop turning
Till the world does
But you live on
In the ritual pre-schooler drop off's
Of the generations you created
And even the ones who never got to see you alive
Will carry a part of your heart inside

whenever somebody reminds me of you, i consider how our roles
were like margo and quentin from paper towns. you loved mystery
novels so much, i'm sure you became one yourself. at one point, i
wholeheartedly believed you were this unattainable celestial being
completely confined in your paper skin. then i realized something,
do you remember that day you called me your best friend as a joke
and the same day, you talked so much **** about me? it made me
realize you were right. you are a part of the ****** people living in
their **** houses burning **** to stay warm, since you like to talk
****. what was i expecting? of course, you're a high schooler. to
think that before my 21st birthday, i was quentin in the way i
admired you from afar, idealizing you as a god and dismissing
everybody else as animals. i preferred to let our paths cross in
my dreams. there were many times our strings crossed, separated,
and then came back together. although i don't have the drive to
chase you across border lines, i would skateboard miles after miles
of desert terrain just to have that opportunity to see you. realizing
it now, being friends with you was a ******* trap. to portray myself
as someone you would prefer to be friends with was difficult, since
you didn't really seem to like anybody all that much anyway. our roles
were strictly platonic, but the days stretched out seemed almost phantasmagoric. our strings that were knotted together so tightly broke
through and through, and none of us would have expected that i'd be
wanting to drive across border lines to stretch the distance out between
me and you, kind of like the way you stretched me out. as i'm slowly
undiscovering you, little by little, i'm realizing the way you think about
a person isn't the way they actually are. people are different when you
smell them and see them up close. now i'm addressing everyone that i
previously ignored because of you, and dismissing you as an animal. i
would rather live in my paper house than have to live with your ****.

- kra

It really is philosophical
This bench by the bus stop
It's wooden planks fading to gray
Solitary in all its nostalgic glory
Ageless and
Uncomfortable in a familiar way
And I knew it wouldn't last,
I knew you couldn't stay.

But I do.
Because I share a room
With an emotional Middle Schooler
Almost as emotional as I
am, figuring out how to bloom
In a world that discards
Real flowers
Because the fake ones look nicer, last longer
But they don't remind me
of dreamy afternoons
on the bench with Yellow roses in my lap
- which you did not buy me - not that
it matters
cause we would argue
for as long as we needed
to determine happiness and colors
(and discuss how to pacify our mothers)

Because they say "Real flowers are not perfect"
I think
That's what makes them worth it
And I remember...
a stormy night
when it poured inside
and I went out into the dark
to escape the light, with you
as we shivered on the bench and
cleaned out the basements of our souls,
organized the attics of our minds.

And now I sit on the bench, with you
And we wonder
At the agony of believing that
Real flowers might be valued
If dreams were worth chasing
And love didn't cost quite so much.
Cause I can't afford
To hope for
Real flowers
But I can't bear
Not to.

I shouldn't be here, I thought to myself
as soon as I stepped foot into that college party
But since they invited a high schooler, I thought,
who am I to turn down free ***** & a good time
I was greeted with a ping pong ball & a partner
& we found ourselves winning game after game
Someone got me a beer & a shot of fireball whiskey,
which were followed almost instantly by three more
I wanted the escape & I knew alcohol would  help,
help with getting me there faster & not having to worry
He was dancing with his friends before I noticed,
he was dancing over into my direction with another shot
It was bright blue & tasted like a sheet of rusty metal,
but I downed another & found myself dancing to the beat
of the music that I would never listen to sober
because rap music has absolutely no meaning to me
Everyone was sweating & dancing against one another,
& the only person I knew when I got there was Jordan,
but he was no where to be seen, only strangers now
But were they really strangers anymore? They knew me
Maybe as that drunk high schooler, but they'll remember
me tomorrow when talking about how fun their night was
& what I thought was coming to an end, was only the beginning

We were your friends

We followed you,
listening,
wiping your tears
when the petty cruelties of teachers
were too much for you to bear

We knew of your loves,
what loves a middle-schooler can have,
of course,
and we relished your stories,
your knowledge

But you were afraid
afraid of our
looks,
words,
personalities,
and for your reputation

You cast us aside,
the used tissue
you showed me once
after blowing your nose in it
that fourth grade day

I had to hold my sister
as she cried

And I hate you

He's a small middle schooler,
who loves violent video games
with explositions and railroad trains.
Whenever he sees a train explodes
he threw out his hands and goes insane.
Dashes around the room and screams,
until his whole heart contains.

Some people say he needs help,
but I ignore them and kept quiet because
when I look at him, he reminds me of myself.

I see him in the hallways carrying tons of stuff,
as he walks in a slow and steady pace,
while everybody stampedes
towards the hall like its a big race.
Sometimes he stumbles and falls;
because in his eyes, everybody is tall.

Some people say he needs help,
but I ignore them and kept quiet
because when I look at him,
he reminds me of myself.

What about this kid that makes him tick?
He screams like his head is piled with bricks.
Everyday, the boy gets stressed out at school,
he's like a hot molten rock that never cools.
Sometimes, in his worse days he would whine,
just like how I was when I was nine.

Some people say he needs help,
only this time I volunteered
because he can't do this all by himself .
Now I know what I must do for him
because dealing with autism isn't easy,
it was hard for me to deal with it, believe me.
It was me who saw through him than nobody else
because everytime I look at him,
he reminds me of myself

Freeman on the land is worth two in the hand
believe you me its hard to understand
how to make one mend with the other
without the other feeling smothered
at birth we emerge with one last surge
swooped away tagged and weighed
registered like some foriegn cargo ship
certified then denied selling freedom lies
conditioned the schooler with the golden ruler
we sinned with social security pins
at 14 did we see what we should have seen
or just a false sense of security
did we willingly voluntarily and intentionally
enter into these one sided contracts naively
ignorance had a different meaning
relying on employer seeking to empower by
continuesly consuming and devouring
returning to the land as a flesh n blood being
living modestly circled and truely free again

I want to create art for the rest of my life but I don’t want to paint flowers I don’t want to draw ocean waves I don’t want to photograph the sunset

I want the art of the oppressed and the needy and the weak and the tiresome, I want their words to break down walls and I want to be an outlet for better days, for the moments that create lifetimes and the stills that hang on walls in your robust mansions that are cleaned by the very people who live in the cities hanging as part of your decor, the cities of workers and lovers and people who depend on one another

I want screaming and crying and the capture of a second of time that will not be erased by your mahogany dinner dates where you talk about the politics of war from the perspective of someone who has never fought a day in their life in the war that a going on right here and right now

I want change and I want to write a piece that years down the road high schoolers annotate like the way I annotated Martin Luther King’s Letter from Birmingham Jail and I want it to ring in those high schooler’s minds until they realize what it is that is bothering them,

what is bothering them is the need for action the need for expression the need for art that is not currently in existence but is instead hanging in an uncomfortable state like an elephant in the room but guess what,

that elephant has a bigger heart than you and guess what,

good things come to those who wait and better days come to those who pray like a little boy who was robbed of his innocence when he saw a shooting in the light of day but was still given a warm meal and a place to stay

bitter cold and bitter winds flow through the blocks of city streets like snakes weaving with a hissing in their teeth but we are the magicians

we are the ones with the power to create something from nothing and you’ll never know what hit you, you’ll spend your whole life trying to figure out our trick because you are not on the inside

you don’t know the method behind the madness, and for the first time

you will be the one in the dark.

i can hear it when i'm walking down the street even if it's silent.
gazes fall over me like watchful crows, i try my best not to boomerang their stares. fearful, always fearful.
once an anecdote to share over a cup of coffee or a raised hand to gain participation points in women and gender studies classes,
sometimes (hopefully) taken seriously but above all if i was with the right person, a palpable tale.
i can hear their voices flood my mind even when they're not talking,
all backwards baseball hats and oversized shirts, pants that sag too low, purposely belted in the wrong place, or if not them then a construction worker sneering twirling his screwdriver in hand, an uneducated high schooler stepping off public transit, sometimes even a brazen-mouthed father holding a young child's hand.
i hear the unwanted coo that eclipses that of the humble new york pigeon or harmless night owl,
i had once thought "sonorous" to be a beautiful word but now i just associate it negatively,
for i hear it, the stream of "hey mami"s,"god bless you", "hey ****", "hey gorgeous how you doin?"
effortlessly tangible like the condensation on a glass of water.
i hear it when they don't speak, it comes naturally to me.
every man i pass by, i give him a voice. i say the words for him in my mind before he even gets the chance to speak or look at me. i've rehearsed it so many times because i've grown to expect it.
constantly fearful and hyperaware.
it's getting to the point where i can't even remember not being like this.
i hate myself for it because, and i repeat words in my head "honey, it's your fault for what you're wearing." who's on your side really? who's on your side when it's 100 degrees on a summer's day and you don't want to wear pants because you don't want to feel the burn on your legs?
"it shouldn't bother you so much."
"just listen to music."
"boys will be boys."
again and again and again
who really understands?

thankful for fall not only because of the pumpkin spice lattes and the countdown til the giant christmas tree is set up in the city, but partly because it'll give me a reason to dress frumpy, unflattering, shapeless.
hopefully it'll help me appear unknown.
that's all i can really hope for.
for now.

Look at our daughters
They now show no ill in laying with men old as their fathers
Look at our sons
Nothing is holding them back from scamming the green people with their bad brain and laptops

Look at our mothers, fathers, the young men and alike; women,
They now have no time for their own children,
Everyone is too busy searching for just one thing,
And that is known as MONEY!

Why will a lady lay with a dog?
Or why’ll she prefer to be known in the environ as a hog?
Is it not just for one thing?
They choose to sell their body?

Why will a schooler choose to become a drop-out with no good passion?
But he’s trying to boycott hardships and hardwork
He’ll just join the bad gang
And will receive money off stealing from the innocent man

He’ll swerve off money from the fleeceable parents
And to all their good, he’ll put an end
He’s not *******
He just wants the wealth; in anyway it comes and at whatsoever cost, he cares less!

Blame it on the money,
What is ours is now owning us,
And we still show no remorse,
As even today, some of your sons and daughters are still singing this MONEY SONG!

©Emmiasky Ojex

We’re (Lisa and I) back in Athens Georgia (hometown USA), where it’s the halcyon days of summer. The south used to be the home of summer heat - not anymore. Now everyone has their little ‘heat domes’ and temperatures well into the hundreds. Show-offs. In Athens, we creep into the low 90s, some days, between daily thunderstorms. Oh, well.

My parents are here! I haven’t seen them in the flesh in almost two years. Each time I had a holiday, they were off doctoring without borders. Every time I’ve seen my mom this week it seems like a surprise. I’ll walk into the kitchen or see her in the den. I hug her every time (Step too). They seem grayer than I remember, it’s scary and it makes me sad. When I mentioned it to Brice (on facetime), he just nodded noncommittally.

Earlier today, my mom, Lisa and I went shopping for our junior year of college. I don’t actually need anything; shopping was really a chance for us to visit and do what we like the most - malling. I like college gear, the clothes, tech, the odds and ends. College clothes are simpler, more utilitarian than I’d imagined back in high school. I’d brought a trunk of Anna Molinari designer clothes to Yale, but I only ended up wearing those at events.

Being home reminds me of how I’d dreamed of going away to college, especially back in the covid lockdown days. I still dream about college but now they’re stress dreams where next semester I get all the wrong classes, I’m placed in the wrong residence, or my roommates are all gone.

My mom’s still my mom and she wants to know all about Peter.
“How’d you end up with Peter?” she asked.
“Well,” I said, shifting dresses on the store rack distractedly, “we met in a coffee shop freshman year, then I saw him on campus a few times. I was drawn to him,” I confessed.
“How so,” my mom asked.
“I like tall guys and he had an unkempt, scarecrow quality that gave him a.. vulnerability. He wasn’t all muscular or fratty.” I further defined, making a yuck face. “And he obviously needed fashion help (my specialty).”

“And,” my mom prodded me after a moment.
“But he was a doctoral student,” I sighed, “and I was a lowly freshman. I mean, why would he be interested in me?” Mom gave me the side eye. “Sure ***, maybe but I wasn’t looking for THAT.”

My mom and Lisa were shuffling through racks of dresses too, each showing me the occasional standouts for themselves or me. My mom stayed quiet and just watched me. She wanted more but, as if I were still a high schooler, I was inclined to give her the minimum info. She broke me down by eyeing me.

“Eventually though,” I began spilling, “we got to talking and when we talked, he seemed like a person of substance. I mean, he was working on his PhD.” I shrugged, “He’s a serious guy - forthright, no-nonsense, shy and lowkey funny. We actually got ‘together’ at the beginning of sophomore year.” (I’m hoping he’ll come for a visit but I’m holding that for now.)

“Annick told me he’s from California..” My mom followed up, “Have you met his parents?”
“You know,” I leaned into her confidentially, “I’m working on my emotional and behavioral independence.” She Laughed and let it go - for the moment - I have no illusions about that.

Meanwhile Lisa and I are out on the lake early every morning water skiing. Charles is in his element, skippering the boat while Carol (Mrs. Charles) mixes coleslaw and grills bacon cheeseburgers. In the afternoons, we’ve begun studying for a couple of hours.

Lisa & I are both molecular biophysics and biochemistry majors. Our books for next semester arrived the same day we did, and we’ve started to read ahead. Everything about Junior year is extra. Our classes will be full of Biochemistry and biology labs, psychology, statistics, and research for credit class with names like “Quantitative Approaches in Biophysics and Biochemistry” and “Research in Biochemistry and Biophysics.”

I’m already set to continue my hospital volunteering and we’ll need to begin to study for our MCATS (Medical College Admission Tests). Next summer we apply to med-schools!

Of course, my Mom, Mz ‘I know everything about med-school admissions’ has a list of every other conceivable requirement for med-schools, like reference letters and God-knows what else and she’ll drop that list on us, like a ton of bricks, with the least hint of encouragement.

But she gets her hugs anyway.

Once the calenders are up and slow January has melted through to July,
we will be the ribbon in the clearance bin at a craft store after Easter.
You and I and everyone, we are the sky-blue silk that,
having finished doughnuts and lemonade
I'd run my sticky fingers through, slipping under cellophane wrappings and unraveling rolls as my mother pulled me through to the felt.
Cut straight we fray, taken to flame we change,
and on an oak table in the kitchen of some suburban household,
we will succumb. By the hands of a grade-schooler, our God,
we will harden to plastic and by candlelight, our means and ends
will unravel no longer.