Letter to a Young Poet

Before I do this poem, I just want to make one thing clear: I think Christine Daie should've ended up with the Phantom, not Raoul. I know Raoul has nice cheekbones and he's not crazy and doesn't drop chandeliers on people, but I don't care.

This poem is for anyone thinking of becoming a poet.

Dear Young Man,

(I don't know why I assume you're a boy and not a girl. Maybe you can be a girl, and if you are, you can be pissed off that I just assumed you were a boy and it will fuel your poetry.) Here's some advice:

#1. Be pissed off.

Smiles and rainbows are for children's cereal commercials. And kittens make for great online videos, but don't actually inspire anybody.

#2. Get a notebook and carry it around with you everywhere.

#3. Begin the ever-elusive search for the perfect pen.

You'll never find it.

#4. Get rid of your X-box.

Not only will this give you the time you need to write, it will make one of your friends very happy (because you gave him an X-box).

#5. Friends are overrated.

I'm not saying you have to get rid of all your friends. Just most of them.

#6. Be yourself.

I have no idea what this means. Maybe quit trying to be like everyone else. I don't know. But don't be too proud of this. It's like vegetarians- or people who don't own televisions. Good for you. Now leave me alone while I eat a bacon burger and watch New Girl.

#7. Look around.

Poets are different. They don't look at the world the same way as everyone else. So pay attention and remember: you're always working.

#8. Don't do drugs.

You may have heard that LSD can enhance creativity, but mostly it just makes you paranoid and delusional and HOW DID ALL THESE BIRDS GET IN HERE?!?!

#9. Read.

If you don't have a library card you are a waste of taxpayer offspring.

#10. Don't become a poet.

Seriously, forget everything I just said. If you really want my advice, listen up.

Close the notebook and put it back in your backpack.

Don't let anyone catch you sitting alone during lunch. That's social suicide. And don't actually give away that X-box your parents gave you for Christmas, are you crazy? Don't get caught noticing the world.

Grab a napkin and wipe that heart off your sleeve. Tell everyone it's ketchup. If you can't get it out, try a little cough syrup and mix it with alcohol. Sometimes it leads to death and even worse, never moving out of your parents' basement. But these are all better than embarrassment and not fitting in. Being yourself only works on the Disney channel and Different is only good in Arby's commercials.

You better spend less time worrying about which poem to write next and more time worrying about which belt goes good with those shoes, cuz honey we're going out tonight and everyone's gonna be there.

Make eye contact with people in suits. Shake their hands, don't worry about the dust. Anis Mojgani isn't a prophet. He's just some dude with a beard who sometimes puts videos on YouTube. I'm glad you're so enthusiastic about the idea of being an artist, but we're talking about the rest of your life here. Art school's only for autistic kids and wealthy orphans who have nothing better to do.

Pick up the phone and call Rauol back. Rauol! Get Rauol on the phone, damn it, and tell him you're sorry. Tell him it's over between you and the Phantom. You were just going through a phase, or you needed space, or whatever, but it's over now. It's over and you're ready to come home.

Quit trying to be different. Go back to the mall and return those pants you just bought. Apologize for the Sharpie stains on the pocket and be sure to ask for a receipt.  And while you're there you may as well ask for a job application.

The road not taken is full of long grass and branches. Nobody knows for sure where it goes, and it's unpopular for a reason. Don't worry about that voice you hear that sounds like it's coming from your heart.

It will go away soon.

Dear Brooklyn (a letter to my 3-year-old daughter)

a letter to billy the kid

Dear Mr. Bonney,

You probably don't know me, so let me introduce myself.

I'm 34 years old and I've never killed anybody.

I was born in July and I write poems at the dinner table.

I hope you weren't watching last Saturday when I tried to put Christmas lights on my house, Mr. Bonney. My fingers were cold and my wife had to help me. I hope you weren't watching when my son asked me to kill the spider on his ceiling. Because I probably didn't look like much of a man.

I let my daughter paint my toenails and our favorite game to play together is called Snuggles.

I've read a lot about you, Mr. Bonney. So I know how young you were when you first killed someone (12). And I know how many men you've killed (21). I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared of you.

I shot a pot gut once, Bonney. It's like a squirrel, but with smaller ears. I was 14 and I used my friend Justin's gun. I turned it to the side because that's what gangsters do and I blasted that little sucker. BOOM. The bullet went straight through his chest. As he fell back, his wallet fell out of his pocket. There were pictures of his kids and a ticket stub to a 7:00 movie. I think it was his anniversary. He looked up at me, confused. His lips mouthed the words Why? and I didn't know the answer. I haven't killed anything since.

Sometimes I dance in front of the mirror, Mr. Kid. Do you ever do that?

The last movie I watched had George Clooney and Sandra Bullock in it. And I cried. Have you seen that movie, Billy?I've always wanted to go to Space Camp, but I'm afraid of heights.

Oh, Billy. I pluck my eyebrows, Billy. I trim my nosehairs.And I drive a minivan. Help me! Help me, Billy! Tell me what it means to be a man.

Cause my hands are too soft. They don't have dirt on them. They don't have blood on them- unless you count all the hearts I've touched. But inspiration don't make no men. And that don't make no sense. So come on now Billy and answer me this. Can I still be a man if folks ain't scared of me? If folks ain't put no bounty on my head for 500 dollars? I don't shoot no guns, Billy. So what you saying: I ain't notorious? I ain't never lived in New Mexico, but I'm still an outlaw in my heart. I'm a cowboy. And I'm wanted, WANTED, dead or alive.

Sincerely,

Kyle J. Nelson, the first

p.s. That song was by Bon Jovi, I think.

p.p.s. I'm not really a cowboy.

p.p.p.s. What's heaven like? Oh wait, you're probably not there.

p.p.p.p.s. I'm tired of comparing myself to you, Billy.

p.p.p.p.p.s. Write back soon.

Dead Duck

The pond wasn't clean. But still, I didn't expect to see a body floating in it.

I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about ducks. I don't hang out around ponds and almost all of my friends are humans. I don't know what ducks eat or how they have babies. I don't know what they dream about or what they want to be when they grow up. I don't know what they're afraid of or how easy it is for them to fall in love.

But I know that duck was dead.

And I must've been the only one who noticed. Because everyone else had moved on. They were clearing their throats. They were having conversations about the weather. There was a young couple, strolling and laughing, as if they hadn't yet figured out that one day they were probably gonna break up. And a boy- he skipped rocks across the water like it wasn't going to be him some day. Maybe he was too young to understand or maybe the rocks were just his way of forgetting for a while.

Because we're all dead ducks. Even if we can't fly and even if we don't swim. We eat white bread that strangers give us and we jaywalk in the middle of the day.

We're like Daffy in that one episode with Bugs Bunny. (You know, the one where they're dancing.) Everyone's clapping for Bugs, because nobody roots for the underdog anymore. It's like every season is duck season. Rabbit season? Duck season. Then Daffy gets his beak shot off, but he keeps on dancing. Trying to get everyone's attention, but they're too busy skipping rocks or talking about the weather or falling in love.

This poem is not about ducks. And it's not about rabbits. It's about you and me and the water that surrounds us all. It's about our legs going a hundred miles an hour underneath. It's about all the reflections in all the ponds and why I couldn't help but see myself when I looked down at that duck.

Look at me trying to dry out my wet guts.
Look at you: you're all dead, you just haven't drowned yet.

And some day, just past the spot where your body floats, a young couple will walk by laughing - whispering nothing into each other's ears. And a boy will skip his rock across the water, as if he's gonna live forever.

helpful, but not

helpful, but not

The best writers
write.

Think about it.

Education is more than
credit hours.

The views expressed here are not necessarily those of BYU.

A letter to my daughter

Dear Brooklyn,

You told me a story tonight, but I wasn't really listening. Partly because I can't understand you when you speak. Mostly because my heart was breaking.

I saw your profile silhouette and got lost in the future. You were 15 and you no longer told me stories with so much enthusiasm anymore. You never even talked to me. You were too busy texting and being in your room and being too young and hip for me. I was too busy worrying about boys. I was too busy working. You were too old and embarrassed to go to work with me like you used to. We argued more than we cuddled. We gave each other the silent treatment instead of piggy back rides. We ate cereal in silence. I stopped scratching your back to help you fall asleep years ago.

All moons go through phases, I guess.

And even though you're still young and you still love me and we told each other great stories tonight, and even though I gave you a piggy back upstairs and we played the balloon game for 20 minutes and you ran upstairs and gave me a kiss right when I asked for it, and even though you're still only three and December's like a month away, and even though your mother and I are still very much in love and we don't just see each other on the weekends, and even though there are 365 days in every single year (sometimes even more) and I have summers off and there will always be another bedtime tomorrow, I know that time is running out.

I could take all the batteries out of all the clocks and it wouldn't change anything.

You still believe in Santa and I wish I did too,
so bad.


Sweet dreams,

I love you.
Dad.

notes about blogging

I'm sitting in the dark right now with 30 teenagers and it isn't even weird.

We're blogging. The blinds are closed, and in other rooms:
teachers are droning. Students are taking notes. Tests, attendance, talking, whispering, silence, noise, everything, nothing. Teachers are going through PowerPoints. Don't forget guys, there's a test next time. Students are sleeping. Hearts aren't beating.

But somewhere, right now, a girl is checking her phone, hoping.

And we're doing the same thing.

We're alive. More alive than we were at this time yesterday. It's 1:26 and we're not even thinking about 2:15.

Each song is the right song. It's the right song.

Even though we're all alone in our own worlds, hiding behind our own screens, we've never been more connected than we are right now.

There's a girl reading her own blog. Yes, her own blog. She reads the 12 comments and then re-reads her own writing as if she's seeing it for the first time. Her readers made her do that.

Someone just realized that they aren't alone.

Today's Halloween. We're all dressed up. But for just a minute, we forget the paint we're wearing, the wigs, and the eyelashes. Even the masks. Our costumes are metaphors for so much more.

And in the middle of the room, a tourist sits alone. (He'll never read this, so it's okay. He won't realize he's alone.)

Twenty Paradoxes

1. Be yourself, be real, be honest, but you'll hide behind a pen name. 
2. Feel comfortable in class, but find your new seats.
3. Paris makes me feel both uplifted and bereft.
4. Be different, be indie, like these people.
5. My favorite art is happy and sad.
6. Connect with others (blogs) and be comfortable being alone.
7. Be original and steal from everyone.
8. Writing can't be taught, but it can be learned. (WTF?)
9. Should I be abstract (love) or concrete (bricks)?
10. Don't worry about what other people think. (Ha ha ha ha.)
11. We're all going to die, we're alive.
12. I won't judge your art: top 5.
13. I'm old (bald) and hip (rap).
14. I love my job, but I'm discontent.
15. I love my life, but I'm miserable.
16. Finding Paris in a crowded classroom in Highland.
17. Love/hate relationships with things.
18. The end of the football season is bittersweet.
19. You can be more than one thing, but you have to practice to be great.
20. love

My Utopian Classroom

 I'd be taller. Just like an inch or two. I don't know why.

We would sing and dance and rap and play games every day. There'd be sunshine (but not too much) and birds would be singing (but not too loud) and there'd be a soft breeze (very soft). My armpits would never sweat. I could wear basketball shorts every day and students would still take me seriously.

Students would take me seriously. They would hang on my every word. Like their life depended on it. Because it does. 

Every song I'd play would be perfect. Nobody would get distracted. Nobody would be offended. Nobody would need their own headphones. The music would never be too loud.

There would be no grades. No carrots. Just love. Desire. Hope. Patience. Water.

Students would love to read. And write. But not at first. Not too much. They would discover their potential in my class. Their success in school and in life would depend on my class. I want things to matter that much. 

I would be everyone's favorite teacher. But I wouldn't realize it until I was 70 and they all came back for my retirement party. A surprise party my wife put together. Even the mayor would be there. She was a struggling redhead only I could get through to. And my deaf son would finally understand me. (Okay, now I'm just describing Mr. Holland's Opus.) One day I would create an opus myself.

And they would make a movie of my life. How I gave up everything to become a teacher. How I saved the world. In the movie, I would be better looking, funnier, smarter, kinder, and the director would get it all wrong. But it would make my parents cry.

I would know every student's name. I would never forget them. They would all be worth remembering and I would have enough space in my brain for all of them. They would all invite me to their weddings, but they wouldn't actually expect me to show up.
 
Oh, and my fridge would work.

Home Free

Please forgive me for this post. I bite my nails and I have unresolved issues with my parents.

"I saw this picture of me playing basketball and I coulda swore it was you."-My Father

 I couldn't sleep last night because of the numbers going through my head.

1. My dad left when I was 8.
2. He was 33.
3. They were married for 12 years.

I took out my calculator and tried not to wake up my wife.

1. My son is 9.
2. I'm 34.
3. We've been married for 13 years.

[Audience exhales.] So that means we're safe, right? The children are safe. I can quit acting like my mother, now. Staying up all night, worrying about everything. That means nothing bad can happen to us now. It's all downhill from here, they say. Our hearts are wrapped in bubble paper and our memories are solid gold.

But every time I look in the mirror:

"You guys have the same walk. The same nose. The same laugh. The same last name. You have the same addictive personality. The same insecurities. You have the same relatives. The same sense of humor. The same family tree. The same DNA. You guys have the same problems. The same obsessions. The same destruction. The same regrets. The same everything."

Then why do I expect things to be different?

 
After I got married, my dad gave me some advice:
"Learn how to cook and do your own laundry. In case you guys ever get divorced."

Hindsight: Maybe he should've told me to treat her right instead. To be honest and true. To not make the same mistakes he did and maybe she'd never want to leave me in the first place. But it got me thinking.  

• Maybe everybody gets divorced eventually.
• Maybe leaves fall from trees every year just to prepare us.
• Maybe we all turn into our parents.

"It was always about to hit me."

Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?

It didn't seem possible. People don't build houses with their bare hands. But I've seen the photographs. I've heard the stories.

In 1981, my parents built a house out of bricks. They put in carpet and painted the walls. My sister and I each had our own room. The basement was always cold and the backyard was fenced in.

Good times, noodle salad.

Endless Love by Diana Ross & Lionel Richie was #2 on the charts.

But nothing lasts forever and these days everyone's pictures are digital. Things can be erased. It could take years, it could take seconds. My black cat was hit by a car in the street across from my house. I didn't find out for two months. My mom knew all along, but she let me think maybe he just ran away and would make his way back one day.

He never came home.

I have summer memories made out of sticks. The songs in our home videos are made out of straw. Somewhere in the basement, I wrote my name on the wall. But someone else lives there now. And everything seems to have floated away.

What was I supposed to do? I loved the Big Bad Wolf, and he loved me.

bereft

I miss something and I can't remember what it is. Or when I saw it last. Or if it remembers me.

Maybe dementia is just around the corner.

I thought I saw my childhood the other day, but it didn't recognize me. The eye contact we made was awkward, and I don't know if we'll ever see each other again.

It was the happiest I've been in a while.

It made me want to call my brother late Sunday night and talk about the good old days. When we sat outside with our shirts off and the music on. We forgot the bad times and how the grass made our backs itch. Mom yelled out the front door that it was time to come in. But the sun was the only one who could ever control us.  

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but somehow a photograph is worth more. It's worth everything in your memory and everything in your pockets.

But we spent it all, Jack. We spent it all.

Please write soon.

goodbye, farewell, until we meet again

I started writing about me but I don't want to write about me anymore. I want to write about you. I want to write about you before you disappear and become a lyric on the tip of my tongue. I want to write about you before the story ends and gets turned into a movie that never made me feel the same way as the book did. I've spent 5 months underlining my favorite parts about you and folding the corners of your pages and spilling coffee all over you. I look around the room now and i want to take a picture of your misleading cover and broken spine. Sometimes I wish you were small enough to carry around in my pocket so I could pull you out when I'm riding Trax. You'd make a great waiting room companion if only as an excuse to avoid making eye contact with all the sick people in the world.

Because the world is full of sick people. And the worst part about it is that they don't know they're sick and neither do the doctors. Their guts are all broken and their insides are dead. They thought creative writing was just a class and never listened to any of the songs. They never wondered about bricks and paper clips or whether love really exists. And they probably never will.

I was working on a PowerPoint that would explain all of this for you, but we ran out of time. Your visa expired and college was on the other line. I told her not to break you or lose you but you never belonged to me in the first place. My adopted baby who, when people see us at the mall together they talk about how cute you are and how your tiny fingers look just like mine and how that one face you make is me to a tee, and you have my eyes. They say that you have my eyes. And I never have the heart to correct them. I've taken full credit for your dark hair and fair skin and I just wanted to let you know that I'm not sorry.

Because when you walk across the aisle to grab your diploma and enter the real world...just before you shake the superintendent's hand, I'm going to stand up and tell everyone that I'm the one who gives this woman away and I don't give a damn if your parents don't understand what's happening. Because I never believed in nature to begin with. You were a blank slate all along and when you wrote a tiny heart in the corner, I was the one who gave you the crayon.

Dead Duck

It's not that the pond was especially clean or pure or anything. But still, I didn't expect to see a body floating in it.

Dead Duck

I don't know that much about ducks. I don't know what they eat or how they have babies. It's probably bread and, you know, eggs, but I don't know for sure.

I don't usually hang out around ponds and almost all of my neighbors are humans. So I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about ducks. I don't know what they dream about or what they want to be when they grow up. I don't know what they're afraid of or how easy it is for them to fall in love.

But I know that that duck was dead.

And I must've been the only one who knew it, because everyone else had moved on. People walked by and talked about how nice the day was. I watched a young couple, strolling and laughing, as if they hadn't yet figured out that love doesn't last forever. And a boy- he skipped rocks across the water like that wasn't going to be him some day.

I don't know if he was too young to understand or if maybe the rocks were just his way of forgetting for a while.

Because we are all dead ducks. Even if we can't fly and even if we don't spend much time around water. I heard that white bread is bad for us- so then why does everyone keep trying to feed it to me?

I'm sick of Bugs Bunny acting like everybody loves him. Like every season is duck season and none of us are rooting for the underdog. Sometimes I feel like my beak has been shot off. Like I'm tap dancing, trying to get someone's attention, but everyone's too busy talking about the weather, or skipping rocks, or being in love.

And this poem isn't about ducks. It's not about ponds or cartoons or how I fell asleep the first time I watched Gladiator. It's about the water that surrounds us all, as we try to hold still and think about other things. It's about all the reflections in all the ponds and why I couldn't help but see myself when I looked down at the duck.

This is me pretending that I'm going to live forever. This is me trying to dry out my wet guts. This is me still figuring everything out because sometimes I just like to see how long I can hold my breath.

We're all happy, we just haven't noticed yet. We're all in love, we just haven't told our parents. We're all dead, we just haven't drowned yet.

And someday, just past the spot where our bodies float, a young couple will walk by laughing - whispering nothing into each other's ears. And a young boy will avoid all the difficult questions as he skips his rocks across the water.

everything i wish someone had told me when i was 17

i saw a young writer eating lunch by himself
a turkey sandwich lay next to his open moleskine notebook
(at least i think it was turkey)
i asked what he wanted to be when he grew up,
but he didn't answer me

because i didn't say it out loud.

i wanted to tell him everything was going to be okay
that everything our 2nd grade teachers told us was true
we are special

and even if everyone's special,
that means no one's special,
i still want to believe that i'm special, he's special, you're special, we're special

and i know i sound like an after school special,
but i want to keep these kids safe, out of trouble,
in a bubble

until it pops.

an elevator only goes up,
until it drops
inspiration moves us,
until it stops.
so while we have it,
let's make rockin' out a habit,
and act like lady gaga and just

dance.

cause actions speak louder than clothes
and amateur poetry speaks louder than prose.
i want to sell out
not for money, but for profit.

stand on top of the world and don't ever get off it
so if you're going through the motions, knock it off
if you're hurt, walk it off
to the ledge at the edge of the world
and don't let anybody talk you off
cause we're all dying

and despite everything that 2nd grade teacher told us,
she was lying
and this kid, sitting alone
eating his sandwich, writing a poem
he gets it

and i'm not saying he's better off
i'm just saying he gets it.

my first nature poem

this morning i sat on the balcony and tried to see the beauty.

no phones or ipods.

just sunrises and birds and mountains.

my mother's voice telling me to stop and look around at god's grandeur and i wanted to enjoy it. i really did.

but i got bored and pulled out an old photo album instead. and i don't know about you, but have you ever been looking through a bunch of pictures and there's one of a sunset, and some trees, and the horizon, and another sunset, and some mountains, flowers, rainbows, and how many pictures of a sunset can you take?

i mean, where are all the people, you know...the humans, the ones with faces and emotions, and really i'm just looking for pictures of me, cause that's all i really care about anyway. pictures of me. pictures with me in them. what am i wearing and what does my face look like, and am i ever gonna get a tan, and why do I look so weird in that picture?

like this one right here.

i'm sitting in my garage with a look on my face that screams happiness and i remember that day. i remember the excitement. it's my 15th birthday and my hair looks crazy terrible because i let josh cut it and he's never cut anyone's hair before and i let him cut mine. and i haven't seen him in 15 years and i miss him.

i miss him.

i miss him like the other half of the world misses the sun and raindrops miss the clouds and the waves crashing on the shore miss the ocean. and maybe i don't appreciate nature like i should.

but i know that every year flowers die and trees lose their leaves

and nobody cries.

Resonate

Here's what doesn't inspire me:

Robots. 

Adults.

The rain.

Gas prices and discussions about the weather.

Being too cool.

Awkward silence.

Eye contact. 

Other people's dreams.

Wind.

Loud music (and I'm not talking about the volume).

Clutter.

Deadlines.

Authority.

Money.

Chemistry.

SAGE tests.

Other people's problems.

And here's what does:

Robots.

Poetry.

Lonely keys.

Lonely chairs.

Anything that's lonely.

Pictures of places I've never been.

Your relationship with your dad.

Sunshine.

What you want to be when you grow up.

Pictures with me in them.

Cigarettes.

The moon.

Other things.

Sixers

10. You have to be here anyway.

           9. Will I ever see him again?

                            8. Just wish I were writing something.

7. Still surprised that she said yes.

                 6. Allergic to responsibility and small talk.

5. Why not just take a risk?

                                                4. Nostalgia never did anyone any favors.

      3. All I need is a pen.

                   2. Still trying to forgive my dad.

1. We're all gonna be dead soon.

Six-word Memoir

Chairs don't have feelings

Senior Year

Dead end job

Here Comes the Rain Again

The trouble with being around teenagers all day

I woke up one day and I was 30.

My back hurt and my knees starting telling me when storms were near. I thought yogurt was a good idea and I started eating soup even when I wasn't sick. I had conversations about backyards and 401k's and the kid's table was something in the other room. Adolescence was in the mirror, but it wasn't any closer than it appeared.

Now I am mostly at the window watching the late afternoon light.*

No matter how many stretches we do or songs we download, we will eventually turn into our parents. And one day we'll look at a photograph and see our legs the way they really look.

*(Line taken from On Turning Ten by Billy Collins)

Harlem Shake

Star Light, Star Bright

-->

Star Light, Star Bright

(subtitle) 99 reasons why Avery and Roah should get married.

Star light, star bright

First star I see tonight

I wish I may, I wish I might

Have the wish I wish tonight

One.

This poem began four years ago. It was a Tuesday. It began when this hippie looking kid showed up in my class even though his name didn't appear on the roll. I still wonder if the world has any record of him at all. This poem began when she enrolled in Creative Writing and I first noticed that she liked to destroy 99-cent journals with her talent. This poem began when I realized that every time he cut his hair, her hair grew longer.

Two.

I met my wife when I was in high school. So obviously that logic must work for everybody. Avery and Roah. Roah and Avery. There are too many reasons why this union makes sense.

Three.

When she was in my class...I wanted to teach her, but I also wanted her to teach me. It's like she was my daughter and my big sister at the same time. And he was like our black sheep cousin who kept getting drunk at all the barbecues and asking us if we wanted to go into business with him selling soap or fire alarms or whatever. And maybe this union would never work because incest even seemed wrong to Shakespeare and maybe they already went out once or maybe she's rubber and he's glue and

apples oranges and pineapple too.

Four.

It just feels right. And I think that's all love is anyway. Who cares if it makes sense? Who cares if everyone's on board? All I know is that I woke up last night at 3am with heartburn and a stomachache. And it didn't go away until I wrote this poem.

Five.

You know, on second thought, maybe this ain't such a good idea. Maybe it's not fair to them. Or even more important, it's not fair to us. Because one day they might have children and one day those children might wear glasses with no lenses and be vegetarians and have punk haircuts and wear ironic t-shirts and listen to music that nobody's ever heard of before.

And one day they might pick up a pen and the universe will never stop expanding.

It's not fair to the local libraries they'd live next to.

It's not fair to thrift stores.

It's not fair to the middle of the night to pluck two stars out of the sky just so I can sleep better. Maybe I should just shut my blinds and quit teaching my kids to wish upon stars. Because Pinocchio was just a movie. And none of us will ever have this wish we wish tonight.

Six.

Avery, Roah. Whatever you decide, you'll always be married in my mind. And when the time comes, I'll tell all of your adopted children about you. In fact, this afternoon, I practiced this poem for my sophomores and they looked at me like I was crazy. Sometimes that's what our children do, am I right? Avery? Roah?

I want to carve your names into the trees that will one day become the covers of composition notebooks.

Avery and Roah. Say it with me now. Avery and Roah. 2012. Four more years. Now that's something that would truly save America. That's something that could actually get me to register to vote. So if you won't do it for yourselves...at least do it for your country. Do it for Paris or Alaska or the moon or wherever you guys are living now. And be sure to write me when you do. Because innovation is in a recession. And hope and change aren't just platforms for fundraising. They're all that ever mattered. And all that ever will.

things like poetry

the only thing that matters to me is poetry. not grades or math or semicolons or whatever. I don't know the capital of New Jersey and I don't even care. I don't know if New Jersey is even a state. (I just looked it up and it is.) all i care about is poetry. I don't care about punctuation or capitalization. even though I keep capitalizing the letter i, maybe because i'm talking about me and I think I'm really IMPORTANT. i don't care about you. at least not as much as i care about me. that took a lot of honesty for me to say and i'm really proud of myself right now.

i don't care about censoring myself right now. i want to drop an f. but i won't right now. cuz i love my family and i want to keep our house right now. i know i keep saying right now right now but i don't really care right now what i write right now cuz right now i'm just repeating words that sound the same and i'm not really saying anything.

i don't care about not using double negatives. the only thing that matters to me is poetry.

and i'm not even talking about poetry like poems. i'm talking about poetry like truth and beauty and love. i'm talking about when Mr. Fox asks why there are so many hookers and saints in one city. cause that's poetry and that's all that really matters.

why do i need to take statistics? why do i need to complete my generals? what the H is a general education? the only thing that matters to me is poetry. not conversations or eye contact or mowing the lawn or taking roll or standing up for the pledge or not dancing whenever i feel like it. i don't know why everyone hates obama so much and i love the house dressing at Cafe Rio but the only thing that really matters to me is poetry.

i think i could kill someone. if i was really mad. and hopeless. and some other things would have to happen but i think i could do it.

if my dad's reading this right now, i just want to say i love you and i'm sorry and i'm not really as pissed off at you as i seem and do you want to come over for dinner sometime? i think i'm ready to forget. i know you're gonna die one day and i can't forget that.

Fears

I'm afraid of everything.

Like what if after we die, that's it. Nothing. It's just over. Or even worse, what if after we die, we live forever. I mean, like, forever. Eternity. It just keeps going and going and going and going...

and going. And going. And going.

I think I need an aspirin. But only one this time.

Even though I don't understand how my heart works, I know that it beats without my help. I'm afraid that if I ignore it, one day it might stop altogether.

I'm afraid of spiders. I'm afraid of them crawling and having babies. I'm afraid of them under my covers and in the shower. Afraid of smashing them. Of smashing one of them and she's pregnant and baby spiders everywhere.

But I'm not afraid of anything. I look at myself in the mirror every morning and I'm comfortable.

My skin is just the right size

and I may not be at peace,

but it's so close I can feel it.

I'm scared of you. I'm scared of everything you'll never be and everything you could be. I'm afraid of potential, which physics taught me is the charge in an electromagnetic field, but life taught me is the root of all sadness. I'm afraid of what could have been.

I can listen to music with my eyes closed. And if I concentrate hard enough, I can predict my own heart beat. I stay up at night and wonder if this is as good as it gets.