Found Poem from Morning Meeting / Cheery Start to the Day

“I can neither confirm nor deny
anything about A.C.S.”

Please don’t leave a suicidal child unattended.
If they’re homicidal let them run. Ha ha. Silence.

If there is a fire in the building
or a bomb
on the L train
you will be directed to do certain things—
shut your doors—
the intercom system does work
after all
in certain rooms.
We’re working on it.

Code blue—a kid’s down.
Some of us are pre-C.P.R. trained.
Some of us aren’t.
Someone will come.

God forbid one of our teachers or students die,
it is not an immediate crisis.
But there will be counseling set up.

Don’t speak to the press.

You will be given a copy
of the plan.

After Work Phone Call

At the end of the day
I want you
to be everything
I need

Which includes a hug,
a reassuring look,
a confidence,
an awe,
affection and an orgasm.
I want this all
at once
a taste of wine disaggregated
aptly swished, sniffed and sipped.

This concoction would surely
include umami and sweet
gone together wrong
rushed
like cold mashed potatoes
unwarmed
eaten for hunger.

I’m sorry
for spitting you out,
for hanging up.

The wires couldn’t conduct
the lobotomy I temporarily
craved
to over-satiate all my senses
into remembering
why each one is worth while.

You are joy
in all
your parts.

Again

I read
him a poem
and he said
“You read your poems
like you
hate yourself.”
I turned red.

I read you
a poem
and you said
“Read it again.”
I turned pink
and read it again.
“Again,” you said,
again.

To Young Artist

You often forget your book bag
and I’m too slow to realize
there are reasons.

But afterschool the other day
you shyly asked me if I ever watched you play
basketball.

I smiled and said I did
through the window by my desk
you run, pass and drive
harder than you fidget in here
where I asked again for you to write
about the events that made up your life.

You looked distracted and what’s more,
yelled, what the fuck was I asking you for?

Why should you tell anyone
what happened to you?
Face one more someone
unsure what to do,
telling you,
“Write about it,”
(I know, I do it too).

But here’s why,
you’re smarter than me
you’ve already seen
more than I’ll ever see,
and all I know about are these
dusty things, called books
where people escape
when they can’t face another
insufficient look,
or the moment they notice
the holes beneath our noses
are holes that can’t make much
but murmurs
and they’re mad, you’re mad, I’m mad
we’re yelling,
at spaces between faces on the train
at absence, and what comes
in between
people not saying what they feel or mean
leaving nothing but time
pen and page
to write down the things
you want to see change
and fear never do.

What can I tell you?
I watch you play
and learn
there must be something
worth saying.