note in math class

assume the following:

y>x

find y

forget x

let y be you

(the sum of my affections)

be my friend?

i feel bad for kids who write love poems
when they have no friends, i can do better:

your face shines like the bright side

of the moon, who needs a dark side
anyway, and when you look

shiny at me i like the way you

hold your hair; hold my hand? say,

where are you from alien girl,
did you come out of that horrible
hole in the sky? most likely not,
most likely you drifted in on pearly
ocean waves, can you sing me an
ocean song? what i really like
(i lied before) are your pink petal
eyelashes when i can feel them
fluttering a perfect goodbye; no,
this is not a love poem, mommy
told me they’re bad for me, but
it’s warm outside, will you play with me?

until you can see me

when i show you

things i have written

i am inviting you into my house

that i have built, so fragile;

so eat something.

reach for the ceiling.

make love on the carpet.

after all

i get lonely here.

Two Angels

"'We’re angels. You know that, right?' she spoke seriously.

'Well, I have some serious shortcomings,' he confessed quietly.
She leaned in slightly, a gentle streak of concern on her spotless face. He shifted slightly, sitting cross-legged on the ottoman, and forced a smile down his throat. The house was ready for something.
Her voice was aloe. 'Everyone does.'"

I have a hard time reading these fairy tales.
My foot starts tapping a rapid rhythm in tune to my heart.
I wish they would just kiss already!
I feel tempted to shout at the page at 9:45 on a Monday morn:
This is why I should give up reading; I want to be every character; I want everyone to be perfect for each other and for eyes to illuminate the velvet night and for people to snuggle sweetly in a dog-like manner

and life would be so kind.
The fable can read me, I’m sure;
maybe if I pretend everything is okay, it won’t catch on to my beating heart
or suspect anything of me.

"They spoke like this, grid-locked all through the magnetizing night. They swapped smiles and shared stories of sacrifice; disclosing in each other the tingling sadness of lying in bed alone; meanwhile the steadily rising loneliness inevitably leads to choices; choices that are too fragile to make even for the choice-makers, which soon one of them would be. Neither of them wanted to leave; they were wild horses, their reins flapping high and free in the wind; done being someone else's; done being drawbridges that led old lovers to who they are today; just two angels, fluttering in the electric spring, restless..."

“Does it matter?” my teacher asks of me.
And thus I am forced to answer:
“Why yes, I think it might.”

the words i can't say

i admit, i had a hard time believing

that your ears haven't been privy to this knowledge before.

and i know you won't see this, but even then,

this simple fact, i can't ignore.

and i thought you might need to hear this

from a boy who isn't perverted, dishonest or gay –

that you are incredibly, irreplaceably Beautiful.

and that's all i wanted to say.

Stuck Just Yesterday

Shards of broken glass littered the lawn;

his shattered childhood laid everywhere.

Jagged bottles seared his head (even his sweat bled),

leaving matted sweet blood in his hair.

Like a tempest he reeled; in the harbor he kneeled

before his guests, stupid high and glad,

who gazed into his wondrous lilac pupils,

so sorry and hurtful and mad.

"Hell, I was stuck just yesterday,"

he roared with awareness and truth.

But like a child he spun, longing for someone

to hold while he moaned for bulimic youth.

Girls kissed while boys talked under the moon;

the saint collapsed in his bed, deterred,

'nd fucked in it, 'nd threw up in it,

"It's all about learning," he slurred.

Changing Selby

I don't mind riding the bus all that much, even if it is down Selby,

which I take all shortcuts and detours to avoid driving on,

because I can't shake the feeling that one day I'll die there

(and no one will hear me).

I keep myself busy enough, listening to The Ocean with a truthful smile, cleaning my fingernails,

changing the names of people and places in my poems, changing them back again; giving up writing for good.

Though I am not all that special, since I spend most of my time looking out the window,

looking for people and the bags that they carry. I'm obsessed with people's bags. I look for them everywhere.

I like pretending I know everything about a person from the bag they carry:

A neon-orange backpack; a sleek messenger bag too small to fit anything in;

a crumbling sack holding dozens of personal treasures; nothing but a wallet and a single key;

a grocery bag filled to the brim; a lovely bag that matches her eyes perfectly;

so you see I am obsessed by bags and the people who carry them.

So much so that one day I didn't notice that the bus hadn't moved for quite some time.

Judging by the hushed chatter, there seemed to be something in our way.

I craned my neck to witness a sinister-looking car with red-and-blue lights, blinking profusely.

There were two policeman outside the car, looking at something interesting on the sidewalk.

There were also two bikes laying forgotten in the grass; rather unnatural, I thought.

My neck hurt.

A fire truck tore its way down the road, lumbering past our rooted bus.

Not a minute later, an ambulance roared to join the now-blinding bombardment of red-blue haze.

Everybody climbed out to join the officers cautiously, taking their time:

Two blue cops, a pair of plain paramedics, and two or three firemen,

wearing the color of flesh not yet burned.

I watched them as they all shared words lifelessly, staring down into the sidewalk;

staring a hole down into the center of St. Paul. I could tell that outside it was windy,

even though they all had short hair – I imagined how much different everything would look,

if they had flowing, thin hair that gave itself over to Nature, blowing in their faces

and hiding from them whatever terrible thing had happened to whoever was riding those bikes,

unnaturally askew on the lawn.

Suddenly then, a single boy rose up, silently thanked them all,

and walked over to the ambulance, climbing into the shelter of its rear.

Without any sound I mused:

What would have to happen to me,

so that I could get a free ride, safe in an ambulance?

But I shook my head,

and continued changing the names.

Standardized Dreams

Notebook ridges in my pillow skin again; I fell asleep again;

what a nightmare I had,

full of people disappearing, raw meat and

ruthless standardization.

My dreams are standardized, education,

was this what you were destined to do?

Give me your answer book kiss;

I loftily fill in my bubbles:

name, caleb or is it kaleb, or monkey boy;

race, other;

sex, sure;

nationality, all of the above;

please education give me the right form number for once.

I've seen all the answers, anyway, in the busy

pages of free rugged college textbooks,

but why would I tell you my secrets education?

You used me education.

You pressed your groin against my innocent knee.

You combed my hair with pencils I felt special I did.

Now my hair is growing long.

You leave me trembling at the knees, I need my breakfast.

My shinbones are splintering, education!

My saliva is scholarly, education!

Now I'm burping empty decadent flavorless burps

and taking my time with semesters:

which are nothing but time chambers

that we try and fit things in;

like trying to put our houses into waterproof garbage bags

to take on our trips to the oceans

(where maybe we'll see some whales).

You asked me how far away the whale is

(and you must have known that the distance formula

is on that formula sheet everyone has: equal opportunity!);

I gave you all that I knew,

like what the thundery april sky looks like

from a window rarely used

until the branches of the oak tree

start shaking.

I gave you this and more;

take it all, education, take it take it

if that's all you were after all this time.

what good does license– ?

what good does license–

when the highway chalk lines

have been furiously erased

in a fit of independence

and release from the menace

of adoration!

and when high-loft swirling parties

are lurking in distant fog

of memory scorned and abandoned,

what good does license?

what good does license

when buses are your second home

and the bitter entrapment of your home the first

keeps you at highway's length;

what good does license

without all the late night glowing

hand holding; teeth cradling

with luscious lip and teasing tongue;

kitchen grinding

on cookie sheets shining in the mad spring night!

what good does license, now,

with my nerves fastened onto a bus,

set to travel where fathers have been to?

what good does–

what good do

i still have to you?

People i Met in the Rain

There was the preacher's boy, whose very words seemed rich with compassion and understanding– for advice on how to best stay dry, he had none. What he did instead was ask if I wanted to join him and his other sons of Jesus. While others may have found his suggestion an insulting attempt at recruitment, he was apologetic, and I said there was no need: I felt whole, and welcomed.

I declined.

My friend from childhood, the silent clown, came looking for me. He performed for me, without makeup or costume. Not performing at all, actually. He acted on his heart; he kept me awake with his festive shadow puppets, his fingers black and huge on the wall. He made an elephant, and it was cute, but I cried. So he made a bunny, which admittedly made me smile. Then we talked about when we were just little kids.

Things were funnier then.

A raven came to my window only at nighttime, and she cocked her head at the sight: Coke cans askew, Skittle wrappers everywhere, old photos and old lives. I quietly spoke out of the darkness, struggling to be heard over the rain. I babbled about the cracks in my face. She rustled her feathers. Kindly, she offered to take me back to her nest, where I would be loved by my new family.

I declined.

Miss Safari was just around the corner, so hidden in the bushes I hardly spotted her. "Ah," I said, "someone to share my problems with!" and yes, she laughed that guiltless laugh, dripping with honey. I chose my words with her carefully. I reminded myself that Miss Safari once killed all the animals and she could do it again. If I got too close. She told me I looked tired. I knew.

There were mirrors everywhere I looked.

The rain simmered down after a long while, a cool mist taking its place, binding me here, tiny drops of water suspended in air... and out of the mist, a smooth, slender hand appeared in front of me, fingers outstretched, asking for someone to hold it. There was an elephant ring on her ring finger. I had been waiting. This is where we said we'd meet. I saw that her hand was worn and wet.

I accepted.