Poet & Teacher

Mariachis stood still
as I slept in my mind
the subway was crowded
as we crowds blew by

Over the bridge
we go one more time
nearer to work
back into line.

The sun is rising
I can almost see,
if it weren’t for that window frame
between you and me.

I close my eyes and
the water rises
my motion picture surmounts
I feel everything shaking
maybe we’re all going to drown

Please won’t you move
take your thoughts
out of space.

Give me my morning back
out of my way

I want the east river
to swim a summer day
nothing matters
no reason to say
“Hey! The sun is rising!”

Don’t worry everyone knows
they’re all enchanted
with how the Earth goes.
That’s how my movie ends
no matter that things are a mess

we’re just floating through winter
like ice cubes in a glass.

We argue over dinner,
still my mother watches
as I bike down second avenue

wavering still
like I am five
on the first cyle.

Once home
the mirror reveals
white hairs
on my head.
I pull them
one by one.

I am too young
for this
(Hair dye was too recently
saved up in change
at the drug store
to piss you off).

I do not cry out in pain when I cut my myself
over the avocado.

It is precarious
when we bike down streets
and no one is adequate
for the thoughts we dream
and the things we know
must be possible
if we want them.

We sleep on pillows
scream silently in sleep
and hope no one opens
that street side door
and stops us from storming
in the presence of others.

Things that could have been
lose themselves
like drops in a puddle.

Our brain imaging today
is like Galileo’s view of the moon
ancient telescopes
determining what we do.

We drive on through
forests outskirting Reno
discombobulated
no common view
finder.

You say, “I just want to know
if he really loves me,”
For hours we’re replayed
Each anecdote
like football play
reviews.

At some point
the call must be made

There is only one first step
on the moon.

Frankie tells me
“Our building is like a church—
not just nobody can come in.
It’s my job to protect it.
I live here 50 years.
There was a young couple
like you,
but he was not one of us

she brought him from the street
they fight a lot.

She come downstairs
2:30 AM want to ‘use my microwave,’
and I let her in,
you know she’s in my building,
but I don’t want no part
of no domestic abuse
but my building’s my building.

I take care of people.

Nick downstairs
he stays to himself
and people talk.
But I pay him some money
to help me with the garbage.

Me?
I’m not a well man
but God don’t want to take me yet.
I got 70 years.
It was a good life.

One time I knew a man,
he had nowhere
so I tell him
‘come here,’
but then he wouldn’t leave
so I had to threaten him
with my gun.

I worked for Nixon once,
man those guys could party!
Good times we had
up til three in the morning
back up cleaning the next day.
That’s why God’s gonna take me
soon.

My wife, ay, I feel bad
she has to get up
the middle of the night
my medicine, ay,
God should take me
soon.

I have a bad knee
when it’s raining.”

You start to get mad
when the substitute asks
why their grammar’s so bad
after you’ve listened to her
yell through the walls
all day.

You start to get mad
when you’re walking home
and in store front reflections
you see your own furrowed brow
flash yourself a smile
and it doesn’t go away
(meta headache
maintained).

You start to get mad
when after a year and a half
the Chinese boy
scores an age four
on a reading comp test.

You start to get mad
when the one who’s excelling
starts to act out because
her dad just got imprisoned
and he was the super
so they’ve been evicted
and oh, her sister’s gone missing.

You start to get mad
when you find out
the kid with the speech impediment
didn’t speak until he was four
because his dad beat him so bad
and he just got out of jail,
hanging around again.

You start to get mad
when you notice a girl
is mostly deaf
(she’s also a Russian immigrant
who’s half black
and hates black people
or maybe just her drug addicted mom
or maybe school
or maybe herself)
and her dad’s dying.
They’re already in a shelter
so I buy her shampoo
and mouth words at her.
The literacy coach mentions
“She doesn’t do her work in class.”
It must be my lessons
why aren’t I more astringent
about expectations?

You start to get mad
when the obese kid,
who saw his dad shot and killed,
writes about it sometimes
but mostly wanders around the room
looking for someone
who will pay attention.

You start to get mad
when this kid keeps repeating this noise
that you’ve rationally explained a million times
is annoying, disruptive, blatantly rude
said on a spectrum of calm to infuriated
to different tunes.
He has a mute brother
who he has to pick up
everyday after school
so he likes to be loud
he’s even pretty funny.
His mom gets called in,
she cries
at a meeting
where we all trip over ourselves
to provide useless solutions
for the under-aged, over responsibilified
who probably just wanted to scream.

I start to get mad
when I wonder how they even smile
when seven hours of periphery
nearly annihilates mine.

I’m just supposed to teach them to read.