a few years
or perhaps a millisecond
cobalt skies impregnated with frost;
a small boy, crystallized lip, pale and
wearing his fingerless gloves with pride
tramping barefoot home
to the warm and dirty stove
and outside his door,
beyond reach of the step
under a pile of snow
on a cracked, dirty bench
between the whispers of souls past–
a poem on a fluttering piece of ripped paper
natives in uproar-
children chopped the chosen ones.
no one’s really listening to
the sexist jock teacher.
the spice of a Cajun
master and his protege
enlightening us, his sacks of paper.
clicks of blunted fingertips
drown the lectures of the old
somnolent, anticipating two more beeps
(they’re not really bells)
Thoreau watches from afar
Pound apologizing to simpering aesthetic Whitman
in the mind of a genius with ADHD;
time to go home again.
it’s the beginning of May, you fuckers
the spring is emerging bursting through
buttoned-down branches, free at last
(though spring is not in fact Black)-
yet we are in boxes.
i’ll tell you, teachers-
you, who preach masculinity (don’t be a Faggot you pansy, come ladies)
you //Bitches of the AdminiStration <school board>,
wise as you proclaim yourselves
I’d bet you my guitar you have yet
to learn the secret MacLeish sought to teach:
Poetry is F.e.e.l.i.n.g-
not a goddamned case study.
(so what did this poet mean, class?)