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Revelations

Fire and ice, liquor and meth Tires and rice, you have bad breath

Just joking, that aint the poem, haha _________________________

Flying among untethered souls of my history, I tossed and turned, feeling hot and then cold My legs were exposed to a breath of fresh air, and the city spread forward from balcony views

I begged the people around me to flee, the fire leaping from each edifice and advancing like clockwork, at a quickening pace, I didn’t rush them at all

If it gets any closer, oh my god, we need to run! And like I thought, in the new row of towers, flames caught and bloomed here-ward, toward us, and we all evacuated to ground level.

But they questioned me falsely, and they proved me wrong.
They brought me back up to the penthouse, to look again, do you see fire? From the same spot, I could cross my eyes, and see that nothing was burning, nothing had burned But right forthwith, a deadly snow began to fall on the wide, green lawns, and on the cherry blossoms outlined below, and the vivid spring tulips, and we trembled, knowing.

I started having obsessive desire to pick up litter and trash starting in first or second grade. I cleaned up our alley in the south side of the city. I made a fort in the backyard of salvaged “fort” stuff, and soon found it very uncomfortable to walk past trash/litter without examining it or putting it where it belonged, probably in a trash can or recycling. Well, since then (1982 or so) litter has multiplied by trillions. Bottled water wasn’t even a thing back then, NO BOTTLES EVERYWHERE. There really wasn’t even that much trash or litter, in retrospect. Now, in Pittsburgh it’s like the whole residential city is the trash heap. Literally, litter everywhere, on every lawn, in every gutter, illegal dumping, big old TVs, Big flat screen TVs with cracks (sitting there in the woods until the end of time). There would be no way to keep up with it. But my personal narrative explains that this was the start of my generalized anxiety disorder and obsessive compulsive disorder. Besides picking up paper and being unable to walk past it, which I reinforced for myself by providing the relief of picking up paper every once in a while (the strongest KIND of reinforcement, haha!). I also needed to double check all the locks on doors in our house, pick the shoes and laundry piles up on the carpeted stairs up to our floor of rooms, and straighten towels on the racks in the bathroom. Then I needed to complete certain caring rituals toward rows of dolls and teddy bears, or they wouldn’t be able to sleep, nor would I. Then we’d have to go downstairs in pajama feet and tell mom and dad with a trembling voice, “I can’t sleep.” Of course, they’d be mad, but for awhile they agreed to come up and sit with me next to my little futon while I fell asleep.

safe safe not safe not safe safe safe safe is it better to just know that you’re not

no one is safe no one ever will be and it’s too late to make the earth safe you were born too late you got up too late you went to sleep too late and know you’ll feel the fatigue in your eyeballs and bones and hands and legs and neck and back and hips

You know that animated movie Wall-E? I basically want his job. I want to collect a huge organized collection of random things normally considered trash. I want to sell these random things and have a giant “make-shop” with sewing machines, long tables, machine parts, motors and gears, everything you lost and never thought you’d find again In the dystopian utopia of a solar punk dream, I have a special shop like that, and I stop for every thing on the ground to examine it, because there’s no rush. Other than the storms that sweep us away every few days, when the ships coming looking for us. Build the make-shop in the basement, with light coming in slanted through the ceiling, a place that’s secret and holy and creates from the remnants, saves them, cleans them, knows someone will need it back eventually.

INCREDIBLY EASY

writing poem

misquoting what somebody said

remembering the moral of the story

behavioral analysis

adrenaline flight

self sabotage

psychic leaps

tangental connections

the melody and the refrain

staying put or being blown around

IMPOSSIBLY DIFFICULT

finding the building entrance at the theater in a new part of town or on a university campus

finding the way out of an overwhelming department store or mall

forgetting about the dead

noticing the future on tip toes

bowing to the wind

lying

stepping on spiders

The Sad and Fluffy Tale with Stripes

One night I was reborn as a raccoon baby, in a soft, warm nest with my brothers and sisters. We kept each other warm with our bodies and our sweet breath, as we patiently waited for mom to come back from the night’s work. The darkness grew lighter and lighter and birds began to sing, as we realized with dread that mother may not come back The next night we went to look for her, and explore the world. We were hungry. There were five of us that morning, and I was the one who found mom. At the edge of our trees, there was a highway, with roaring machines moving at lightening-seeming speed, and a terrible smell. I wished I were back in the next with the soft smell of grass, feet, and mom. But she was smashed, of course. There on the terrible pavement of death, my mind couldn’t comprehend it. I slept for another day, in a dark corner, and then I was too hungry to stay dying of a broken heart. I could hear other raccoons out there, and I could smell food. We found free food on the back patio of a great mansion. It seemed like it was for us. We ate there, refusing to talk or think about mom, or the terrible place with foul smelling killing machines, and we slept and grew. Then one awful day, we came too early, and met the cat. The cat was one of us, wild, with no mother. But he was leaving marks, his smell on the rugs around the food, and he wouldn’t let us come eat. The food is for everyone, I said to him, hands calmly at my sides. No, it’s not! The cat hissed. It’s for meee! The humans (he pointed a black paw at the mansion), they put it here for me! Not you ugly little bears! We’re not bears, said my sister. Then one of the tall, hairless ones, the family, the humans! said the cat. They started banging an invisible wall between us. Tap tap tap tap! The cat ran away. The voices beyond the invisible wall, if they were voices, it was yelling. They didn’t want us there! The cat was right. I felt my heart break, and stopped loving the world. All of it’s amazing smells, tastes, and sounds. All for nothing, all for a hateful life of death, stink, and invisible walls. My brothers and sisters ran away, but I stayed and stared back at the things. They were waving, and still banging with a sharp sound, I felt frozen. But I also wanted to attack them. And I wanted the food that was ours to begin with. I wanted to live. I wanted to kill the cat, selfish bastard. I backed away without taking my eyes off the shapes and sounds at the invisible wall. We’ll have to find food somewhere else, I guess, also it was morning, and we were so tired. We went to bed hungry in a new nest that we made, farther down the street. But now that I know the sound of “highway,” I can always hear it. I’ll never think life is for fun, or pleasure, or rest, or return, anymore.

Hopefully not creepy, just human

I washed the entire body of Bob, paralyzed from the waist down, I took his clothes off, I put him in the fancy lift, I pushed him to the shower, I placed him back in the chair, I washed his long hair, I used two squirts of body wash the way he wanted, hung the washcloth on the bar he indicated, Washed his feet, washed his legs, washed his thighs and private creases, Washed his back, washed his hair with two applications, applied conditioner, He washed his armpits and face, but I washed his beard with the shampoo. I dried his hair with the brush and hair dryer on high/hot the way he requested. A couple times he almost passed out and died, bleeding from orifices, while I stood horrified that managing life and death was paid at 15.00/hour and Bob said it was a good rate. He didn’t ASK ME if it was a good rate. He told me repeated that it was. And that me implying the commute was a considerable expense, 20-30 min time plus gas? In what year was 15/hour a good wage? Not this one, or last, or all the way back to 2015, at least. Bro, you’re being cheap, wtf. I’m a poet, I’m not trained for fitting a grown, tall ass man’s feet into pressure socks. i’ve never changed pee-bags before. And that’s how you got the good rate on me- no real experience. Bob took me out to the dinner the morning I performed the entire routine independently: getting him up, presentable, wearing glass and a watch, tolerating my extra-ness, and he drove the van that was fitted for a wheelchair. He told me once that one of his aides said, This aint social hour, upon arrival He liked that and he wished I would shut up, be less authentic, give less, share less, do more. do your job for 15/hour, that great rate. I remember his feet, heavy and blue blood cold, as I handled them, taking them off and putting them back on the feet-plates of the wheelchair. Changing the potty under the wheelchair. Dump the mess in the toilet, yeah, bob this was worth 40/hour minimum. That’s why I can’t totally love you. You tried to rip me off, use my humanity. Get a good enough deal. But stupid me, I still loved Bob. I tried to follow him into some virtual reality game, and I totally forgot the name, but I Remember his wide display of two large monitors, high class desktop computers, acorn trees asleep in their pots, You’re a full man here, and he said, you wouldn’t recongize me. We can’t be friends. I’m not nice there, like here. I sprayed his glasses 2-3 times with the tiny bottle of glasses-cleaner, getting them perfect. Thinking about that old erotica movie, Secretary. I felt some type of way for him. Of course, it helped me that he was impotent, no feeling, no control. I pulled the urine condom off and rolled it back on the soft snail. Blood came out, and blood in the urine bag attached to the leg. Bob wanted me to adjust things just as he would have, if he could use the lower half of his body. But the lower half was dead weight for him. He shared with me the one poem he ever wrote, and I put it on the momento shelf I have that supports the box holding the ashes of Tatiana, beloved first cat, and pictures Mary took, the program bulletin from her funeral, a lock of hair that’s yellow and various other magic things, things to keep the love forever spell. So I don’t know if Bob is still alive. He probalby is. When he started peeing blood, I was getting another job that paid closer to a “living wage.” I think Bob knew 15/hour isn’t a living wage anymore. An I think his virtual alter ego was closer to the surface than he realized. He was like Forest Gump’s friend Captain Dan. Too angry to befriend, too bitter, but still sexy. Also, I think he was a Trump-lover type guy. He had “wife-beater” tank tops with American Flags, and such. He lived in a nice neighborhood. That’s usually enough for Americans to side with Fascism, imho. Well, Dan I loved you though. I started wanting to be liked by you, to make you laugh, to change you. Sorry about that. I just thought if you smoked weed it would help. A loser-making-15/hour-type of idea. Especially if you’re gonna die, bro. But thank you for letting me handle your body, that vulnerability. Sometimes I wanna find out if you’re still alive, but what if you are, and you offer me 15/hour again, while I love you.

FARZONA

One of my favorite, most memorable students was named Dammit, I forgot, but I had her for a year before she went to the Middle School Teacher. All the kids were Muslim; it was an international school. Fara- Far- What was her name? This was in 2019 when covid spread, and the next year she had Ms. Radic. Ms. Radic was my friend, but I thought she yelled too much at the kids. This child was angelic looking, Far-forgotten name, and she was from Turkey, Uzbekistan, or one of those countries that try to satiate Russia’s appetite Far-zona Her name, Farsona? She was one of the last students to join the 5th grade class that I taught that year, with those blessed, beloved people whom I miss forever. Far-zona She told me one day that she had dreamed that she laid AN EGG. I loved that. Just like a bird! She was concerned about her future as a woman.

Once she got to Ms. Radic, she had experienced a strange summer in a faraway country where a rich uncle bought her a full wardrobe of pink, sparkling items. She was perfectly beautiful. Everyone loved her. Damn, I forget all their names, But there was Serafina, there was Kayala, they were small and religious, and rebellious, and real.

Ms. Radic quit after she yelled at the principal for interrupting her class, and she was openly disrespectful (I thought) during PD meetings, doing silly things like braiding hair with other women. And once the principal (who I backed) confronted her about the disrespect, she quit.

After she quit, I remember I had Sarfina and her, Farzona, in my room for lunch, some special Girls Group to reinforce positive behavior/teach social skills. And the day I remember, I got into an argumetn with Farzona.

I said, Ms. Radic was too mean. She yelled too much. Of course, I also yelled, but it’s nice to point a finger at the teacher(s) who yell more than me. So, Farzona said, “She did NOT yell too much. The people, those boys deserved it.”

And I felt challenged. So I said, “Farzona, Ms. Radic DID yell too much, and it’s just not appropriate.” And I was thinking of being the child, try to comprehend the rage of an adult. But Farzona got mad and she countered, “No, Ms. Radic did nothing wrong.” And Farzona missed Ms. Radic. I did too, but I also thought she was disrespectful to the principal by braiding hair during the PD, and I was in snitch mode, so I thought these kids would benefit to be free of an adult yelling at them.

But now, here I am. I got fired for yelling to much at the kids, and using profanity. I wish I could send a message to Farzona telling her that she was right. Teachers are allowed to “yell too much.” It fucking shows they care, and it betrays how much of themselves they’ve sacrificed to the job. I think Farzona would have had my back at my most recent job. “He IS a brat,” she would say, “You just told the truth.”

The enemy was moving in the night, and so were we. I led a small group around the periphery of a house just like the one on 39th and 10th, where we grew up, and the sand pit on the side was still there, and we fell into it. Dead deer! My sister yelled right as I felt it, below, struggling at my legs. It was hidden, mortally wounded, struggling beneath the shubbery rubbish that covers the sand pit. Not dead, but dying alone. Oh my god, Oh my god, I yelled, get me out of this, climbing out of the pit. And it wasn’t the only dead animal. I hit a wall of bushes a bit later and she yelled from the other side, You don’t even want to see what’s over here! And I didn’t. Just another grosteque display of life that got mangled and smashed by something unknown. As usual, I was trying to find a small weapon that I’d dropped out the window, but outside, the yard became the corner of 38th and Chicago in Minneapolis And a bunch of street folks, including killers and enemies, was hanging out there, so my partner said, fuck it, Let’s not worry about trying to get it back right now. It’s just a tiny pill, right? But I did find it, and I tried to light it. With this weapon (like a magical molotov cocktail) you have to light it around the enemy and then throw it at them, and it vaporizes them like witches melting into a puddle. But the fire just flamed and fizzled. It wouldn’t stay lit. I couldn’t throw it. Then we were walking along a highway, trying to walk on the shoulder. But the cars were unmanned, and they lurched for us like robot sharks. The last stressful things that happened were with my pets. I saw my puppy trotting after a group of big dogs, and I screamed her name to come back. I screamed so loudly my throat was hoarse. All she wanted to do was smell the bigger black poodle’s butt, but the moment was loaded with dread. She came back finally, no bloody dog fight. All’s well that ends well.

The Greatest Memories The memories I’ll take with me from 2025 with my class that I had until last month are musical. I’ll think about us all belting out Toto, “I bless the rains down in Africa! Gonna take the time to do the things we never diiiiiiid,” doom da doom doom doom!”

And getting down to Shaboozey’s big hit, Tipsy, “One, here comes the two to the three to the four… Say it’s last call and they kick us out the door. It’s gettin’ kinda late but the ladies want some more! Oh my, good lord! ///My baby wanna Birkin. She been telling me all night long.”

And Morgan Wallen’s sexy banger, “Last Night, we let the liquor talk, we can’t remember everything we said but we said it all. You told me that you wish I was somebody you never met! Well baby, baby, something’s tellin’ me this aint over yet. No way it was our last night!”

Then me and the other aides (middle aged gals) exchange a look that means how much WE LIKE Morgan Wallen, with his tight white jeans struttin’ around on stage. Some things go over the kids’ heads.

Then we play the song, Aint Got a Guy for That, by Post Malone feat. Luke Combs. I overthought this lyrics way too much. But at the end, I’m singing with my students,

“Know a V.I.P. up at M.I.T. And he still won't let me fly the time machine Someone to turn back the hands on my new AP But, buddy, what I really need

Is someone to put her tires back in the drive And if they don't, then I just might Lose what's left of my never-lovin' mind I'm damn near down to my last dime!”

Damn. I was a better choir director than academic teacher in some ways. But we had fun! If only their wasn’t an armed society of administration pointing bazookas at it, demanding the data that shows a likely profit for the nonprofit based on meeting standards designed to produce production and profit.

facts, I STILL aint got a guy for that.

Funny tangent— Last night while I was bar and club hopping in my dream life, somebody said, “We CAN’T go home yet! The Post Malone show just got out, so many dudes out there!”

It’s a persuasive argument. I DO wanna go where the dudes are at, but are they really there? Or is Post Malone’s concerts full of teenage white girls?

I like the combo of R&B with country, it’s an easy mix. Throw a little soft rap in there, sure, why not?

The song my class REALLY got into (especially the one I loved the most, Chance) was Tears for Fears, SHOUT… SHOUT… LET IT ALL OUT! These are the things I can do without! Come on! I’m talking to you… come on.

I’m completely unwilling to grieve the loss of this class, these students, ugh, too sad to comprehend. The lost boys. They go on without me now. Their hell never ends. They’re locked up. The environment elicits the worst behaviors possible, which means they don’t get to “earn” going back home, maybe never. Best case scenario, a group home will take them. For that, I write a report that makes them look attractive. they were always attractive humans in my book. Talented, funny, particular, intelligent, and brave. Truly tough survivors.

It’s impossible to keep track of anyone. We all go our separate ways.

We also loved to sing these other songs:

-Everybody wants to rule the world (as featured in the Minions movie) -a long list of kids educational type songs about planets, dinosaurs, etc. -That love song where the video is a mirror image of drawings in pencil, and the lover comes to life, what’s it called… Take on Me, by Aha.

That’s how we made school in a moldy basement room surrounded by chaos and broken hardware— that’s how we made it fun.

But I burned out. And it sucks for them. But it rocks for me. Because I’m never teaching for a non-profit again, or for the state. I refuse to use the degree I worked hard for years and years. I get to keep the knowledge. But my cover was blown, and they don’t want me back.

You are not eligible for re-hire. And I’m not interested in it, either. But the kids, with our music, our joy, that’s ours.

Since I was 10 or so, I’d critique myself the way a good American girl should be critiqued… Am I on track? Am I pretty enough? Will they love me? Do they love me? What can I change, what can I learn to be loved more, to be safer, to be more bulletproof, to provide a higher profit? How much will they pay me for my neutrality or even endorsement? Am I going to heaven or hell? And which one I deserve.

And I created this bottom line in the mid-air, in the sky that could boom like thunder, BUT ARE YOU WRITING POETRY

yes, my drunk and sad reply. yeah. I can’t stop doing that, that’s the only thing we really like, so yeah, no matter.

Then you’re fine, says the lightening. You’re doing your job. Really can’t do much more. The gods love you, and can’t wait to snuggle with you like a pile of kittens or puppies.

Nightly spirit’s journey toward home Is no one going that way?
No one else wants to go home yet Kind stranger, can you tell me where the subway is, It looks like East New York, or Broadway in Brooklyn, in Bedford Stuyvesant and there’s gotta be a subway entrance around here somewhere searching all four corners, calculating the city grid I never pay, I always slip the stall like a ghost and it’s crowded on the 2/3/4/5/G train platform It’s so crowded I end up hanging off the scaffolding from an above ground train platform, maybe in Long Island City I’m holding on tight, dangling above dark water I think that if my shoes fall off, even one of them, the rest of my walking journey will be hard. My feet will hurt badly At least one of my high heeled shoes is sliding off my foot dangling as if from a barbie doll, as if it isn’t real I’ll have to pull myself back up to get on that train Fling myself right back up, like a bat When I enter the car, everyone is running out, as if from a bad situation or an intolerable smell (or both), and there’s one, crazy homeless person sitting there by the pole, amid all her bright trash but it doesn’t stink (because I’m a spirit, we don’t smell) I’m fine riding in this car but I don’t think I made it home I got in walkable distance but it was so tiring All I wanted was to go out for a couple hours Be the Cinderella of the ball, then come back on the metro Thinking, Maybe I’ll go to college in the Canadian province Get another Masters degree or something Maybe there are more lives to be lived