Cleaning House

The house is a wreck, but these blogs are too good. I'm sorry baby, I can't vacuum right now, these blogs are too good.

Our backyard looks like an I spy calendar.
Our house looks like a Where's Waldo book.
But this year's reveal was the greatest of all time,
The Muhammad Ali of Real Talk.
So I'm sorry baby, I can't wipe down the counters right now, these blogs are too good.

Besides, that's a woman's job anyway, right? Like painting your nails, keeping a journal, and poetry. 

This is me calling out every boy in the class (except a few).

Because for every Tom Iansek there was a Celeste, two Eleanors, a Carina, and a bunch of Roses and Janes. And don't get me started on the Cornelias in the class.

James McKay fooled us all and the best boy in the class was some chick named Alice.

Maybe girls are better writers than boys. (Granted there are more girls in the class and there aren't any ladies on the football team and it's hard to hear from the back row.)

But I guess we just don't live in a world where it's cool for boys to like poetry.

I don't blame you. I would've been the same way in high school.

But now I'm different. It's probably because I was raised by girls, I don't know.

Some of you say: well, I'm just not a good writer. 

The fact that I am speaking this into my iPad instead of typing it sums up everything. Writing is not writing, it's just thinking. And if you were a tourist in writing, you were a tourist in thought.

And Trey said he's in jail because he was too big of a coward to express himself.

So to the boys who could do it: thank you. They probably won't let you sit by the knight, but you probably don't care anyway.

Anyway. This post is for everyone, not just the boys who won't read this. 

Thank you for creating such a positive community on these blogs. You read each other's work, you commented, and you built each other up. And you got no credit for it.

There were too many blogs, though. Too many blogs. Too many blogs. I missed so many of them. I missed so many top fives. My heart is overinflated from too many blogs.

There was so much you didn't learn this semester because there was so much I didn't teach.

Some of you have actually been to Paris
And I have the nerve to tell you what it's like
Some of you have lived there since seventh grade.

However,
Some of you have never been out of the state
And some of you will never leave.

[awkward silence while I think of how to end this]

Christmas came four days too early this year. Thank you for that.

This class is Christmas morning. But you don't get Christmas morning every morning. That's what makes it so special.  You still have to put up the lights and find a parking spot at Wal-mart on Black Friday. There are the awkward family parties and the ice melt you have to put on the driveway. Then you have to shovel the driveway and try to fit all those boxes into the recycling bin. And then you have to clean the house all over again. 

Your life is all of it,

it's Christmas morning and the ads on your Spotify Christmas playlist,

and this class was just one morning of your life.

Thanks to those who didn't sleep in.

Sincerely,
Kyle Nelson

ones and zeroes

Imagine a roomful of robots reading poetry to each other.

One gets up and shares an algorithm that makes every machine try to snap its fingers.

There's one about extension cords and one about endless data and one about zeroes and ones and ones and zeroes.

There's a lot of understanding but no tears or goosebumps or changes in temperature.

A hard drive may have overheated, but nobody got cold.

Robots don't get cold. 

I read two blogs tonight that dropped the temperature of my house:
her name was adleen
last thing, before you go

So go ahead without me, because I'm going to spend the rest of the night trying to figure this all out.

Let's spend the rest of our lives trying to figure this all out. 

No, please, keep studying for your science test and keep playing Trivia Crack until you have a winning record. Please. Keep putting your head down during Anis Mojgani's poetry and keep worrying about that ACT score. No, really, fire up Call of Duty or Pinterest or both and find anyway to escape this moment right now.

How can anyone blame you? Your dad gets mad whenever you turn up the heater.

Our lives are just someone else's Snapchat story and we'll never guess the password no matter how long we try.

I have a pile of 10th grade papers that I'm probably never going to grade.

I told my daughter I couldn't tell her a story tonight because we played Memory and watched Tangled and I guess somehow that felt like enough.

Even the ones who seem to have it all figured out somehow manage to do it wrong now and then.

I'll finish this blog post before 9 o'clock because I have to go play basketball and get my temperature back up again.

If you recognize this algorithm, then snap your fingers, snap your fingers, snap your fingers.

a comment i left on a tourist's blog

Sometimes I wonder.

I wonder what your blog would be like if you spent more time on it. It's clear you have some really interesting thoughts. It's also clear that you don't spend very much time on your blog.

I wonder if fire is aware of itself.

I wonder if God is thinking of me right now.

I wonder if my sore throat is just a cold or something more.

I wonder if cancer will be around forever.

I wonder if cancer is aware of itself.

I wonder what it would be like to be in high school these days. With all the cell phones and internets and snap chats and social media. I wonder if I would've had a lot of "friends."

I wonder how the White Elephant Blog Project is going to go.

I wonder if you even know about it.

I wonder if I would be different if I was born black.

I wonder if I would still exist if my dad never met my mom. Maybe I would still exist, but I would just look different.

I wonder if you're still reading this comment.

I wonder how I could write more in this comment than you've written on your entire blog, yet that doesn't bother you at all.

I wonder if I take it too easy on students.

I wonder if I don't.

I wonder how things would've been different if I would've accepted the Hunter High School job instead of the Lone Peak job.

I wonder if my second oldest son has asthma.

I wonder if my oldest son knows his little brother is better than him at basketball.

I wonder if Spotify is really bad for the music business.

I wonder what the temperature is on the moon right now.

I wonder what you're doing right now. What class do you have 4th period? Are you paying attention? Is the teacher just rambling on or is the teacher sitting back at his desk in another world? Does that teacher like his job? Or does he wonder where his life went wrong?

I wonder if my life has gone wrong, or if I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

I wonder why my wife doesn't love poetry as much as I do.

I wonder if Santa is going to bring us a damn cat this Christmas. I hope not. (But secretly I hope he does. I mean, I love cats. I've written poems about cats. I've cried over a cat. I've had a cat stare into my soul and made me question the true nature of God and his creations. So if Santa happens to bring us a cat, sure, I won't enjoy the little turd pissing all over the house, and I won't enjoy the hairballs and the kitty litter remnants, but I think there's room in my heart.)

I wonder if you're still reading or if you've moved on with your life.

I wonder if you've even seen this at all.

I wonder if it matters. I wonder if anything matters. I wonder if my mom is thinking of me right now.

Thanks for reading.

distractions

I write poems when I don't have words for how I feel. And I need poetry now more than ever.

We stare at Google Earth on our computers, but we don't see the world clearly. It keeps turning and turning and downtown there are crazy people everywhere. Crazy people with no monthly payments, talking to themselves on street corners. Crazy people who've never been to a psychiatrist. I'm sure there's desperation in their eyes, but I'm always too afraid to look. 

My contacts are burning right now anyway.

The bell is ringing, but I'm sitting in my living room and my kids are asleep upstairs. The bell is ringing, but class doesn't start for 10 hours. Maybe they messed up Daylight Savings Time. Maybe we're trying to turn the clocks back to see what else we could've saved.   Maybe they never really could save time or daylight or anything.

I'm down to 8% battery on this laptop, and that's how life feels sometimes. But I promise, I swear, the plug is in the next room. I know it is.

My daughter asked why all the horses were getting rained on and I didn't have an answer. My wife said something about the barn being locked, but I was too busy trying to listen to the score of the Steelers game. We all need distractions to keep us happy.

Now that one season's over, I just need another distraction. The leaves keep falling and it's not winter yet, but it feels like it. We've been breathing in and out for months, but only now can you actually see our breath.

A letter to my 10-year-old son

My first kiss was in June

We were so young.

The sky was clear, but the stars were everywhere. I mean everywhere. And we were so young.

We were only across the street at the softball fields, but we were closer to the moon. We were closer to 17 than we were to being in love. She was my first kiss, and I don't think I was hers. We were so young and we didn't even know it. 

I want to thank her for not ruining it.

I  haven't thought about her in a few years. I've seen her on Facebook, but I didn't look her in the eyes. I'm trying to remember if I loved her.

Here's what I came up with:

I sort of liked her,
I sort of loved her,
I sort of loved her sister.

I didn't keep in touch,
I didn't grow to regret it,
I still remember the smell,
I still remember,
I still remember,
If you're reading this, dear, I'm sorry. But,
I still remember.

We were so young.
We kissed again about a year later,
but it wasn't the same.

I could've sworn there were fireworks,
but it was only June.

If you're reading this, dear, I'm sorry. We've been married far too long for you to get jealous.

She wrote on my arms but it never seeped into my heart, I promise. This is just a blog post. 

We were so young,

it was only June.

Invisible Things

Time is running out and so is the ink in our pens.

We had a poetry open mic in my room yesterday during lunch. Six people showed up. In a school of 2300 students, six showed up.

You're telling me only six people are alive?

I don't know. Maybe poetry is a waste of time.

But here's what I know because I think I read it in a book once:
our hearts bleed for a living
and I bet they love their job.
They've been bleeding since we came out and don't try to fix them because that's what they do,
and besides, they don't make band-aids for your insides. Or do they.

Here's what I noticed about you:

• Your heart is flat.
• Your heart has weeds growing all around it.
• Your heart is on fire, and not the good kind of fire.
• Your heart is a toddler in the bathtub. (I know you just stepped out for a second. I get it. The phone was ringing and it wasn't going to answer itself. But if you don't wake the &%$# up and check on her, she's going to drown. And I'm sorry, but CPR doesn't work forever. If you wait too long you might as well go pick out a plot and bury that bloody lump of flesh, because it ain't coming back no matter how many love letters you write.)

If you can hear my voice, I ain't talking to you.

I'm talking to the muscle heads who sit by the knight and make me nervous to walk through the commons during lunch.
I'm talking to the three girls who eat lunch outside my classroom but never come in because blah blah giggle blah blah blah.
I'm talking to the school librarian.
I'm talking to the teachers who eat in the faculty room and complain about the students in their 3rd period classes.
I'm talking to the school cop who's just waiting for someone to mess up,
because believe it or not, even he has a heart.

I'm sick of reading about you in the newspaper.
I'm sick of seeing you on the 6 o'clock news.
I'm sick of seeing kids in Spanish Lab instead of Poetry Lab. Really? Spanish Lab?

Me estas tomando el pelo? (are you kidding me?)
Sabes que, stupido? (guess what, stupid)
Te estas muriendo. (you are dying)
Te estas muriendo. (you are dying)

Your heart left a post-it note on my computer and here's what it said:
Why do you only call me when you're drunk?

I wrote this poem in front of my A1 class and too many students missed it.
Three kids were talking about invisible things.
A girl was laughing even though she didn't think anything was funny.
Two kids were asleep.
Another kid was in the bathroom.
One kid was squinting to see the board because he's too proud to wear glasses and too scared to ask me if he can sit closer to the front.
One girl was home sleeping because everything is too much.
Another kid was thinking about his dad.
They didn't care.
They were confused.
Scared.
Bored.
Looking at June on their calendars and nothing on their phones.
Giggling because this isn't really teaching and hearts can't really talk, Mr. Nelson, you're so funny, you're the funniest teacher, omigosh, can I go to the bathroom, what did I miss last time?, why don't you teach juniors? how do you write a vignette?

Sophomores turn into seniors who forgot their sophomore year.
And they turn into juniors who speak fluent robot.
And college students who think books are too expensive and can never find a parking spot.

And moms and dads and weird uncles who think they're funnier than they really are.

Our hairstyles look different, but our hearts look the same. At least that's what I read in a textbook once. And I'm sad to say that there are too many hearts that I've never seen, so I guess I don't know for sure.

Forget About It

I'm reading The Blind Side and the kid says,

"People ask me if I ever reach the top will I forget about them? So I ask people if I don’t reach the top will y’all forget about me?"

 

Forget About It

I said something terrible the other day. We watched a video and I laughed and told the class:

I don't remember that student's name. I don't remember that student's name. Or that student's name. And it wasn't a lie. I couldn't think of their names off the top of my head.

So here's how I sleep at night:

Let's just run the numbers. Two classes every semester, that's 70 students. So every year that's 140 students. After five years, that's 700 students. Not to mention the four classes of sophomores, that's 120 every year. After six years, that's 720 students. So that's over 1400 students in six years.

I mean, my heart is big, but c'mon...

Plus I have to remember my wife's birthday, what grades my kids are in, my social security number, my anniversary, my address, my phone number, my top 5 favorite movies, my daughter's voice, to get milk, where I parked the car, when I last mowed the lawn, when I last wore this shirt, when the next new episode of New Girl is on, to take attendance, what my brother Josh looked like when he smiled, that God loves me, where my keys are, to tell my mom I love her, to call my dad on his birthday, my Skyward password,

plus a bunch of other stuff I can't remember.

So if I see you in a Walmart checkout line or in an old video, please forgive me if I can't think of your name right away.

I promise, I haven't forgotten you.

Your name is just a leaf that hasn't dropped yet. So before a big windstorm comes by, do something for me. 

Remember when we made the dance video with Caden and Tara and everyone? Forget about it.

Remember Tim's face when he was sitting back at my computer? Forget about it.

Remember when Lexi came back? Remember when Lon got up and read? Remember when Sarah and Addie's blogs made us jealous? Forget about it.

Remember how excited we all were on the first day? Forget about it.

Remember how nostalgic we were at the end? Forget about it.

Remember how I struggled to get your attention because the girls were just too excited about everything all the time? Forget about it.

Remember the day we tried to talk about Jonny, but nobody knew what to say? Forget about it.

Remember how I made seating charts, but most of you sat where you wanted anyway? Forget about it.

Remember how fast this year went? Remember Valentine's Day? Remember jumping in the air on Indie Day? Remember the story about the wise man and the bird and how everything was in your hands? Forget about it.

Remember this: doo, da, doo. da da da doo doo doo. #fancy

Remember trying to come up with a pen name? Remember choosing a blog template? Remember when nobody knew who you were? Forget about it.

Remember when I told you to fall in love? Forget about it.

Remember the story about the autistic son who typed the words "I Am Real" ? Because I almost forgot about that.

Remember the paradoxes, the contradictions, the top 5s that I missed, the pictures of journals I never showed you, remember the natives and the tourists, the hearts you saw and the ones you didn't, remember what your bones said, all the lines from all the songs, and every blog post you didn't read.

I feel like the girl in The Book Thief walking through the crowd of Jews whispering, "I won't forget you, I won't forget you."

But I'm sorry. Because I can't stop bombs from falling.

Found your blog. Blown Away. Please help?

Hello, Mr. Nelson.

You don’t know me, but I stumbled across your blog while looking for excerpts from Joe Brainard’s I Remember. I soon discovered countless poems that I believe are all student submissions. My question is: how have you guided them in crafting such stunning work???

Oh. Right. I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Joe Belknap, and I’m a Creative Writing teacher from Milwaukee.

To the point: Are you willing to share any powerful mentor texts you use? Or are there poets you could recommend to me?

Thank you. And thank you for being a teacher.

Best,

Joe Belknap

Hey, thanks Joe!

I just yelled at my 4th period class (full of sophomores, not creative writing students). So your e-mail was much needed. 

Yes, most of the examples and links on my blog are student examples. And I agree with you 100%. Some of them are absolutely stunning.

So how are they producing such great work?

Answer #1: I don't know.

Answer #2: I teach in an affluent, literate area. Maybe since many of them come from literate families, with books in their homes, that they come into the class already equipped with poetry. (Wait, so poor people can't write poetry?)

Answer #3: It's the platform. Because they each have their own blog, and they know other students will be reading their work (and perhaps Joe Belknap), they put forth maximum effort to make their words mean something.

Answer #4: It's not me, it's Anis Mojgani, it's Buddy Wakefield, it's Andrea Gibson, it's Sarah Kay, it's Phil Kaye, it's Derrick Brown.

Answer #5: I teach them less about craft and more about courage. I get them to look at themselves as creative, then I have them list their fears, then I tell them that we're all going to die, then I tell them that all their fears are irrational because really we're all going to die so why be afraid of anything else, and then I make them get up and do some SLAM POETRY SHARE YOUR HEART stuff in front of the class.

As far as mentor texts:

Joe Brainard's I Remember is amazing. I remember reading that when I was in college and it inspired me to write my guts out. Many of my mentor texts are slam poets (such as the ones mentioned earlier).

Feel free to use anything I've linked to on my blog. Most of the stuff I'm sure I've stolen myself.

Again, thanks for the e-mail. It means a lot. 

Kyle

SSDD

and it all happened in an instant.

Everyone graduated, and everyone got a year older. The announcements were licked and sealed. They saw New York and said goodbye to their boyfriends.

And here we go again.

I haven't posted anything in months and I don't know if it's because I was intimidated by them or you or

maybe these new guys just ain't ready yet.

I saw you in the hall yesterday, but you graduated three years ago.

We're friends on Facebook, but I can't remember your name.

We got married 14 years ago, but we still feel like teenagers.

You're already counting down the days until June. But my calendar still says August. It will always be August around here.

I was listening to Spotify five minutes ago, but the song ended. I was left in silence with only the sound of punched keys and the echoes of students in the commons getting ready for Homecoming.

Listen to me. Do your hair up real nice and put on two squirts of cologne. Ask your parents to borrow the car and stop for a minute to take it all in. One day you'll forget everything. One day Homecoming will no longer exist. 

Don't worry if you don't understand anything I'm writing. I don't either. Pretty soon you'll be graduated and married and divorced and it will all make sense. Hit me up on Facebook. I'll respond to your friend request within three weeks, I promise.

Welcome back.

the truth about tobacco

This is a poem about real things.

Things you can hold in your hand. Things you can feel. Things that will kill you.

This is a Drug Poem. It's not really a suicide poem.

A student once asked me if I ever did drugs when I was a teenager. I said, "No comment." How can you tell someone not to do something you've never tried yourself?

I don't smoke, I don't drink, I don't inhale, shoot up, or sniff anything. I'm so anti-drug, they're probably going to put DON'T DO DRUGS on my head stone. My favorite entry in the dictionary is for the word WACK. The example sentence is: all drugs are bad, but crack is wack.

And ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the dictionary was right. Crack is wack.

But this is a poem about real things.

It's not about ghosts or zombies or vampires. 

It's not about grades or SAGE tests or graduation.

It's not even really about death, it's about things that can kill you. Like heart attacks. Shotguns. Choking. It's about real things.

It's not about sadness, it's about the rain. It's about staring at nothing. Keeping everything bottled up.

It's about smoking cigarettes.

There's something romantic about it. If you can get past the smell, the teeth stains, the phlegm, all the emphysema.

But this isn't a poem about lung disease. It's about real things. It's a poem about what really should be said at the dinner table. It's about everything that's happening right now. 

Like how scared I am to be here in the auditorium instead of the little theater or my classroom or my living room. It's just too big. Like we're goldfish in the ocean.

 We don't make eye contact anymore and we don't wear watches either. We don't hide behind pen names.

We write poems about addiction. Poems about death and heartbreak and loneliness. 

We write poems in the car. We sit in Wal-mart parking lots writing poems about the moon, but the streetlights keep getting in the way. We wait at railroad crossings wondering when it will be our turn. We know the train will end eventually, but none of us can see it.

This is a poem about real things. It's not about Facebook friends or even real-life friends. It's definitely not about high school. It's about how all the cute girls got fat. And all the fat girls got married. And nobody remembers where anybody sat for lunch. 

So here's the truth about tobacco:

It takes years to kill you. I wish I could say the same about everything else.

On Turning Ten by Billy Collins

The Elephant in the Room

I didn't get into this to become the enemy. The villain. The bad guy. I never wanted it to be them vs. me. Kryptonite isn't cheap, and I'm not even in the market anyway.

I like teenagers. If I start hating them, I probably shouldn't be a teacher.

But look at me. Telling these young whippersnappers to get off my lawn. Sitting in this computer lab shushing kids like a librarian stereotype.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Keep it down.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I effin' hate this.

It's spring break in 20 minutes and I'm asking them to focus.

I remember being 15. I hated school, I hated teachers, I hated adults. It was YOLO before Drake could even walk. It was trending before hashtags. I just wanted to have fun. No, sir, I don't have a hall pass. Yes, sir, I'll go back to class. No, ma'am, I don't know where that came from. Yes, ma'am, I'm sorry.

Now look at me.

The enemy.

Maybe I'm just bitter. Maybe I'm taking my baldness out on them. My sore ankle. My lost adolescence.

There's an elephant in this room. They call him The Future. He's wearing sunglasses and knows everything. He's the coolest kid in the neighborhood, with the whitest teeth, but everyone's too intimidated to look him in the eye.

We all know he's there, but I'm the only one who's taking him seriously. These kids are too busy giggling and No way, are you serious? and Shut up and Ha ha hee hee ha ha hee.

This is the worst flirting I've ever seen.

They pretend like they don't see him there, staring at them. You know how teenagers are. Like they're all performing and the cameras just started rolling. We may as well be in the stands of a football game on a Friday night and the boy we like is sitting right behind us.

I'm not saying I wish I was them. Because I don't. When I was 15, Puberty was just a monster under the bed. So those weren't the glory days for me.

Maybe I'm just waiting for the bell to ring too. 

Tomorrow (Cuz that's when I wrote it)

T.G.I.F.!

But anyway.

I wrote a few poems and someone had the brilliant idea that maybe I should read them. So last night, I read them. And then I couldn't sleep.

I couldn't sleep because I kept thinking about everything I was scared of. Cause baby, I was so scared. I was scared of standing up in front of all those people. I was scared of not being interesting. I was afraid that they wouldn't like me. And if they did like me, what if it didn't last and what if I died and they didn't come to my funeral because the weekends are busy?

The future is overflowing with time but I can't stop worrying that it's running out. I just bought a new pen and I'm still not satisfied. I don't know if they noticed, but last night I couldn't really look them in the eyes because if I did then we both might've gotten lost. Sometimes I'm afraid that maybe we're all that beautiful and I don't know about them, but I still think I'm the center of the universe. And strangers sit around and watch my life like The Truman Show...but I know that was just a movie. Because I notice myself in crowds and usually I just blend in.

I want to be more than just Earth decor.

I want to be taller. I want them to like me- even if I don't know them (especially if I don't know them). I want to go to Seven Peaks and take my shirt off- like take my WHOLE shirt off and just walk around. Comfortable. Secure. Happy. But that never happens. I'm too worried about other people and you know what I really hate? Other people.

Hey, look. I'm glad we got the chance to catch up, but really, I never wanted to talk to you about your job. Or how crazy the weather was. Or how school was going or what was new or how things were or what was up because I DON'T CARE. I don't care about you. I don't care about the people in your life. I don't like any of them. I don't like giving courtesy laughs and I definitely don't like anything you've posted on Facebook even though sometimes it may appear as if I liked it. I was just trying to be nice.

I think I might be allergic to PHONY and right now, I'm about to sneeze, yall.

No offense, but I'm tired of not offending you- besides, I have too many numbers in my phone anyway. And starting today...if I have a booger in my nose, I'm just gonna pick it. I don't even care.

The 49th Street Galleria

When I was a kid, we went to the 49th Street Galleria like every day. It was 1989 and the world was only as big and as far as my mom could drive us. She dropped us off at 3 and picked us up at 10. (Sometimes I would call her from just outside the roller skating rink and convince her to wait until 11.) It was what they called the good old days.

I pegged my pant legs, sometimes I let my sister dress me, we listened to R&B music but never thought about what it said, and we made it rain with tokens.

We drank Orange Juliuses until our chests hurt, we had pockets full of tokens and appointment books full of nothing, there were girls everywhere, and they even turned the lights off while we roller skated.

I still have callouses from the batting cages, I still wear glasses from standing too close to the arcade games, my voice still hurts from karaoke, and all I want to do these days is dance. My stomach hasn't felt like that since forever.


Last week the building came crashing down. I just spent 12 minutes trying to come up with a metaphor, but sometimes real life is more poetic than poetry.

I've been sad all week and I couldn't figure out why until I wrote this post.

a random thank you letter

Mr. Nelson and Roah,

I'm sorry. There are kids who are standing on the precipice of the end of their story and men being raped thinking they have to keep it hidden because things like that can't happen to real men and hearts breaking without making a sound because no one can hear bleeding and all around the world there are people losing limbs and dying from osteosarcoma. And here I am. Typing this so futilely.

But I had to get the words out soon or they'd never escape. I'm afraid this feeling will run away from me and I won't be able to get it back because no one ever knew it was true. So here's to both of you. Maybe I'm just being an attention whore.

These words are a gin and tonic mix to Mr. Nelson with the bittersweet, moving, scary, heartbreaking, heart-mending, full, genuine words and Roah, with the beautiful eyes and voice and the Apollo inside, but most of all his wonderful lightning enigmatic eccentricity:

I want so badly to a part of it all. Last Friday, I went to Speak for Yourself. I think you were supposed to be there Mr. Nelson; there was a poem about you from Charles Darnell. Leaving early was the hardest part. Everything else was beautiful and it's been too long. The night pulled tightly on my heartstrings while my heart made ugly music and harsh sounds because it just didn't know how to handle the discovery. People are so passionate and torn and brave to go up there and show others their words with voices vulnerable and powerful. I felt like the poets were giving me a peek inside of their soul that I shouldn't have been looking at. But I couldn't bring myself to look away. I've been spending hours between the SFYS blog and Paranoid Breakable and anonymous blogs and my dusty journal and Microsoft word. It's been wonderful; though I've been neglecting my homework terribly. I mean staying up until 2 AM terribly, which I guess isn't too bad because during a rough patch of a few months, I'd stay up until 4 some days, putting every little thing off because I took on too much; thinking I could do it when everyone said I couldn't. And I can't.

I want to go up to Tim and Taylor and Kyle and Soley and Shane and anonymous bloggers and both of you so I can say thank you. Because I've found something I feel infinitely alternating shades about. I found it in every last one of you. And it's been there for years, I was just too blind to see it, especially when I walked past SFYS posters last year, wanting to go live in poetry but never going, somehow never having the goddamn time. Especially when I skimmed over passages and articles without thinking twice about them. Especially when I had the interest to click on poetry videos but ended up not having the patience to finish them. I was so skittery.

I'm guilty of being selfish in wallowing self-pity and for not listening. I'm guilty of a lot of things. Before I graduate, before I die, maybe I'll have the guts to talk to you and say meaningful coherent sentences. Because man, that's a rarity for me. But a coward will say things and never do them and I'm not an interesting one. I've thrown away my chance at passing any AP tests and getting a flimsy paper that says I got straight A's in high school. I let good grades define me and I didn't know what I could be without them, but I've rediscovered something that matters to me. I hope I never lose it. It's reading and writing and listening yet it's not reading and writing and listening because those are just three words. All of it is better than ever before because in the drought I'd forgotten to even think about water. But now I'm in the ocean and water engulfs me. And I hope everyone finds their crashing waves of blue.

I wish I'd taken creative writing Mr. Nelson. I know you're saving a lot of kids from drowning by just knowing they are. And Roah, I wish I could ask you questions, but I'm just counting my stars to having really opened my eyes to words when I did. It's comforting and scary that I haven't even scratched the surface yet. I wish I knew more about visiting Paris and #stolen and letters and Anis and slam poetry. I really wish I had a blog and your prompts Nelson, but it would be so selfish because I'd just want my words to be read by someone and hope that maybe they liked what I wrote. I want to be one of the OTHER WRITERS. Maybe I just need to know half a person is listening. It was definitely selfish that when I got home from SFYS I took my pencil and wrote and thought and wrote and thought, liking the sound of my noise, instead of simply taking in what I'd just experienced. If you've read all the way down this stream of words, I couldn't tell you how much that means and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for taking time away from you, but I guess not enough that it kept me from hitting the send button. I'm sorry for the amount of "buts" and "becauses" and "ands" in this awfully long message that's vague and doesn't make sense. I'm sorry that I made you kind of know a part of me when I'm not worth knowing. People are always saying time must be managed and that it's a valuable thing and heals all wounds and other shitty clichés. I am truly sorry for wasting yours though.

Thank you from here to there and everywhere,

just a girl who loves CD's and has never kissed a boy and listened to "The Dreamer" and "Kitchen Sink"and "Welcome Home, Son" over and over and over while spilling this motley splotchy ink on you.

I'm sorry for making a mess.

a letter to a former student

Truly yours. Your biggest fan. This is Stan.

Great to hear from you. I saw your parents a couple weeks ago. I see your sister on B days. I hope everything's going well on your mission. Speaking of cliches: nobody's perfect. Just do your best, man.

It's my 6th year teaching. (I had you my first year. That's crazy. It doesn't seem that long ago. But it does.) So much has changed. But, I'm still the same guy. I'm still trying to be myself as much as possible. I'm still trying to get my students to love to write (and read, sort of). I still like the students. I enjoy being around young people. They're enthusiastic. They're alive. They're full of angst. They're trying to figure out everything. I love that about them.

So how have I changed? Well, I've gained like 10 pounds. I'm going bald. I'm getting some gray hairs. I'm smarter. Yeah, I'm smarter. I think I understand more about teaching. I'm embarrassed by some of the lessons I've tried (although I will say that I busted out the lesson about Regina Spektor's "Samson", because I remember you once said it was a good one. I taught it this year for the first time since my first year). I think I'm more compassionate. I understand students have other things on their mind. I understand that students have a lot of crap they deal with outside of school. But I still struggle not to take things personally.

(These are deep, heavy questions by the way. I like them.)

How have the kids changed? The easy answer would be PHONES. But that's not really true. I'm tired of people blaming everything on the internet. I mean, everyone has a freaking iPhone, I mean everyone. And Twitter is taking over the world (maybe not, maybe just my world). It's actually not that bad. I like it. I use it. I do see how it affects them socially, though. I'm worried about my own kids and iPads and video games and ADHD and everything. My oldest son (Cy, he's 9) wants to play on his iPad and all I see is a socially broken 16 year-old who doesn't know how to talk to anyone or look anyone in the eye. (Wait, I just described myself at 16, and at 34 for that matter. Maybe we're all a little broken.)

This is a difficult question to answer. I try to look at students as individuals instead of groups of people or types or students in general. So it's difficult to quantify, if that makes sense.

So let's go to the final question: what impresses me about students.

I love seeing a young person trying to be himself/herself. Not worried about fitting in, just worried about finding himself/herself. Some of my favorite students are NOT popular. They don't have a lot of friends (because high school kids can be very particular about who their friends are). I like the students who aren't afraid to be alone and aren't depressed about it. Or maybe they just have one or two close friends and that's it. They don't need to be in a group of 15 to be happy. I'd rather have two close friends that 16 superficial acquaintances (even though I'm pretty sure that's how many of my friends I had in tuxedos at my wedding, I don't think I even remember all their names).

I enjoy seeing a young person be real. Again, this is related to the first thing. They're not worried about fitting in or saying the right thing. They're just interested in being real. They're honest. They don't know everything. They're not afraid to laugh at themselves. They're kind. They're especially kind to people below them (on the social ladder, even though there aren't very many). They don't look at friends as investments or social capital. They're just looking for kindred spirits. And they have passion. I love being around people that are passionate about something. Like art or writing or music or something. But not sports. I mean, I'm passionate about sports too...but that's not something that impresses me about someone.

I don't even know what I'm saying anymore.

Seriously, I'm glad to hear from you. Not much as changed here. I'm still teaching and still loving it and still writing and still wanting to write more and still watching the Oscars and still wishing I was writing my Oscar acceptance speech and still wondering if I'm going to write anything this summer and still trying to be a better husband and father and teacher and human being and still failing at everything but still trying and I forgot to eat lunch today.

Anyway.

Preach on.

Ideas

Some ideas for poems that never materialized.

poems about cats

Her name was Midnight and she was the first girl I ever loved. 

Blacker than Las Vegas, she slept on my chest and drooled all over my heart. (I don't want to be metaphorical or poetic right now. I want to tell the truth.) She was a cat. She pooped in a box and covered it with sand. It's not about poetry.

She coughed up hairballs on the carpet and licked herself all over. Her tongue felt like the moon and I know this because she licked my face like it was a hobby.

Her name was Midnight and she was the first girl I ever loved. 

I couldn't tell if she felt the same way about me. Sometimes I'd see her rub up against the leg of the chair and she looked happy. But she never bit me no matter how many times I forgot to feed her. Sometimes, late at night, she would lie next to me, her head resting on my arm, like we were cuddling, like we were in love, like our lungs were learning to share.

Her name was Midnight

She got diarrhea when we drove too long in the car.

and she was the first girl I ever loved. 

I'm not superstitious, but I needed her to fall asleep. Part nightlight, part bedtime story, part sleeping pill. (I don't want to be poetic. I needed her in order to fall asleep.) She had nine lives but nobody knew how many she had left.

Her name was 

(whistles and kisses and whistles)

She got hit by a car, but I didn't want to believe it. I was on the porch like,

(whistles and kisses and whistles)

She was a cat. She pooped in a box and covered it with sand. (I'm not being poetic. I'm just telling the truth.) The truth is that the cat's name wasn't Midnight. It was kitty. (My sister and I couldn't decide on a name, so we just called her kitty.) I was on the porch like "Here kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty. Here kitty, kitty." It was like we didn't even know each other.

Her name was Midnight 

I didn't come here to talk about cats. The last cat I owned crapped on my bed, so I gave it to the pound. I'm not a sentimental guy. She's just another dead cat on the side of the road. The truth is that Midnight wasn't really a girl. She was a boy. I was just ashamed to admit that I was sitting on my porch for an hour waiting for a boy to come home, because I loved him more than anything.

Explanation

I'm sorry.

I made an executive decision tonight.

I separated the OTHER WRITERS (people who aren't in the class) from the WRITERS (people who are in the class).

It wasn't a rash decision. It's something I've been thinking about for a while. Here are some of the reasons why:

• The OTHER WRITERS list went from 5 to 12 to 26. 
• I was having trouble keeping everyone straight (who's in the class? who's not?).
• I was neglecting my current students.
• Some of the OTHER WRITERS were just too good. 
• I put two OTHER WRITERS in the hall of fame (one by accident).
• Now the list of WRITERS is 75. 
• It's only fair. 

Anyway. I'm sorry. The OTHER WRITERS are still on the WritersParis home page, they're just separated. It's probably not the same, but I'm sorry.

Especially after reading this brilliant post by Sky Trillion.

Your hair was long when we first met

"Then Samson went to Gaza, and saw there an harlot, and went in unto her." (Judges 16:1)

I told the class to take out their bibles and turn to the Old Testament. They looked at me like I was crazy. This wasn't Sunday School. It was English. And it was Wednesday. We were supposed to be learning about allusions.

We talked about the story of Samson and Delilah. She cut off his hair (allegedly), and he lost all his power. We listened to Regina Spektor's song, Samson.



I asked a bunch of questions I don't know the answers to. Like who's this song about? Where do we go when we die? Does God remember me? (I didn't ask them all out loud.) We talked about love and sex and power (then someone asked to use the bathroom), and we talked about God and strength and betrayal and man, it's such a pretty song.

I looked out the window and saw Jared (aka The Fighter, aka @22JaredL, aka Tiger, aka one of my former football players). Last month, Jared was diagnosed With T-Cell Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. Fresh off chemotherapy and radiation, he just came by to say hello.

I asked him how he was feeling, what he's been up to, how the mask he was wearing felt, if he remembered me, if he was in pain, if he still believed in God, how long he thinks he's going to live, if he ever asks why (I didn't ask them all out loud.)

Gabi, Sarah, and Lexi stopped by during lunch. I haven't seen Lexi in months. Her hair was shorter and hipper and she looked happy. She showed me a picture of when she cut it all off. I asked her why she did it, if it hurt her or anyone else, if she lost her power, if she still believes in God, if she's happy, if she's cried today, if she's nervous about coming back to school, if she's all better, if she ever asks why (I didn't ask them all out loud.)

"And Samson called unto the Lord, and said, O Lord God, remember me, I pray thee, and strengthen me"

It was supposed to just be another day at the office. But sometimes Wednesdays are more than just Wednesdays. Sometimes teachers have more questions than they ever say out loud. And sometimes we're all just waiting for our hair to grow back.

I know Spring doesn't officially begin for a few more weeks, but here's to hoping.

17

1. Sometimes we stay up late and talk about all the things we’ll never do.
2. I crossed the street on a rainy afternoon and was never the same.
3. I’m afraid that most of my students don’t have poetry in their hearts.
4. Watching The Croods with my children tonight, wondering why we’re so scared. 
5. We all try to be different, which makes us all exactly the same. 
6. I teach high school because I think my real life began at 17. 
7. Lying in a coffin, waiting for her kiss to bring me back to life.
8. My dad stopped drinking on a Sunday, but the weekend still didn't come.
9. pleasefindmehere's been gone for months, but she's here more than ever before.
10. The pills in the medicine cabinet have us all comfortably numb.
11. "Lucy takes the long way home"- she hasn't been this lost in a while.
12. If the moon could talk, she would tell the world how much she misses the sun.
13. I haven't crashed my car in years, but I can still smell the gasoline.
14. I wear pink socks and my wife runs a saw- so you tell me who's the man.
15. I wrote my name on the back of her heart, but she will never see it.
16. I'm allergic to the sound of my own name - except when she says it. 
17. Tell Cy he's smart, and Bo he's funny, but each wish they were the other. 

(These are all American Sentences. An American Sentence has 17 syllables. It's like a haiku, but different.)

Looking for pleasefindmehere

She was in my creative writing class before she got sent away. It was weeks and weeks and then a surprise post came on a Saturday. I don't think our class has been the same ever since. Writing is no longer something we do for points. It saves us.

She tries to tell us where to find her, but every time I look, she's gone.

This is me trying to figure out how to get everyone to write like her. Including myself.

I read her most recent post and it didn't make me cry. It made me swear. Four times. I felt a burning in my heart. It wasn't heartburn, necessarily. But my heart was burning. (It's different, I don't know how.)

So what's the secret? Maybe you have to be born with it. It's not something I can teach. Maybe you have to have red hair. Maybe you have to sit in the front row. Maybe the key is dedication. You have to read blogs for a year before you even take the class. You have to know Roah and Avery and Emily and all the greats. You have to read every blog (and I mean every blog) in the class. You have to comment and steal and comment and steal. You have to fall in love and know what you're falling in love with. Maybe you have to write about sad shit. Maybe you have to swear. Maybe you just have to be real. Maybe you won't become great until after you've already taken the class twice. Maybe you have to get sent away in the middle of the semester for anyone to listen.

"Somedays I wonder if I'm being heard. Or if I still have to cut off all my hair for some attention."

I didn't think I'd ever get over Teenwulf. I didn't think I'd ever get over Syl. And certainly everything would die when The Devastation Diaries and Joel Wilder graduated. But somehow, we're all still alive.

My neighbor across the street got a birthday present this morning. It was a car. She's 17. Not 16, but 17. She woke up this morning, saw the car parked on the lawn with the balloons, and exhaled. Finally.

Somehow, I think that explains it all. 

Things I'm trying to forget

"I feel like my English skills are going backwards in your class. Last year I had Malouf and you have a lot in common to him but I feel like he taught me more."

I read 126 letters singing my praises. But I always dwell on the negative one.

I tell Cy he's smart, and tell Bo he's funny, and tell Brooklyn she's pretty.

But all Cy thinks about is why he's not funny. And Bo thinks about why he's not smart. And Brooklyn wonders why she can't be anything but pretty.

We are never happy. 

No matter how many times we try to convince ourselves that this is the purpose of life. We move around the furniture and look under rocks trying to find it. But we're not actually looking.

I keep telling myself to ignore the noise and focus on the positive. I tell my kids to do the same thing. But we all keep forgetting.

Here's to the strings around our fingers.

A post that started about one thing but ended up being about something else.

It's all starting to blend together.

The mondays and the lessons and the blogs and the Super Bowls and the memories in the backyard and the bedtime stories and the drive homes and the pictures and the tweets and the comments and the jokes I've already used and the stories I've already told and the students' names and the faces and the feelings, oh my goodness, the feelings.

I don't think there's an app for this.

This is only my 6th year teaching and sometimes it feels like my 28th.

And sometimes it feels like my first.

I don't leave the school until after 4:30 every day and I used to think that's what made me a good teacher. Then I started hearing voices. "You need perspective, it's just a job, an A- teacher, an A- husband, a B+ father, what do you do so late?, just plan lessons?, English 12 prepares students more for college, wake up, what are you doing?, are you coaching next year?, happy friday, it's almost the weekend, it's almost Christmas, it's almost Spring Break, it's almost Summer, your family's the most important thing, nothing matters when you think of things eternally, what are you still doing here?"

I've never been more sure of anything in my life.

I don't know if I was called to be a teacher or a writer or a coach.

But I know the day doesn't end at 4pm.

Cutting it Close

I hurry

because the bell is going to ring soon and students might walk into my room soon and I haven't eaten lunch yet and it's time,

it's time.

I put the cheese back in the fridge and I'm safe.

I don't want anyone to walk in while I'm cutting the cheese.

#jokes
#immature
#imseriousthough
#truth
#ineedsomerealproblems

Why Poetry

I told all these high school students to write a poem for their final.

And they asked why.

Well, here’s why:

• Because you’ve already taken your math final, that’s why. 
• Because I said so. 
• Because I couldn’t think of anything better. 
• Because I just got off the phone with your heart and I think she wants out. 
• Because the world is spinning at 800 miles per hour and nobody's dizzy. 
• Because video games aren’t real and the universe is still expanding and we’ve all heard enough stories about vampires. 
• Because I got a part-time job as a coroner and I want to see if you’re still alive. 
• Because our older sisters are still alive and they have no idea how we feel about them. 
• Because high school isn’t real. I just got back from the real world and trust me. It’s a lot less like High School Musical and a lot more like The Walking Dead. There are too many people out there who are dead in here. 
• Because I don’t know if you can feel it or smell it, but - we are all on fire. 
• Because you’re rich, that’s why. And I used to work at the happiness store and they don’t take credit cards. And I’ve been in your backyard. I know it’s big, but someday you’ll run out of room and have nowhere to bury all your problems. 
• Because every one of your ribs has a purpose, but neither of us knows what it is. 
• Because of the look in my daughter’s eyes when she’s embarrassed. Because of the look in her eyes when I’ve hurt her feelings. Because of the void that existed in my heart before she was born, and how I didn’t even know it was there. 
• Because it’s sad to see a robot try to recognize himself in a mirror. 
• Because we’re all alive, but just barely. 
• Because one day we’ll all be adults - adults who ask each other about their families, discuss the best ways to replace water heaters, and start conversations in public restrooms. 
• Because the world is running out of hot water. 
• Because hurt and pain never quit, they just go on vacation. 
• Because LOOK AT US. Connecting with each other instead of regurgitating facts that we memorized last night and will forget tomorrow. 
• Because this life is an open gym and we’re talking about practice. 
• Because if a tree falls in the woods, but nobody hears it, does it make a sound? And what if you feel something, but fail to notice it? 
• Because I hate you. 
• No, because I love you. 
• Because my mom went to see a fortune teller when I was 13. And he told her that I would grow up to be a paramedic. That one day I would pull a young boy from water – and that I would spend the rest of my life trying to save people.

12 days of slam poetry

On the twelfth day of slam poetry, my true love gave to me:

12 people saved

11 goosebumps

10 fingers snapping

9 audience mmmmms

8 lines a singingggg

7 piles of guts

6 dramatic pauses

5 HONEST LINES

4 practice readings

3 rough drafts

2 Mojganis

and a notebook under the tree.

Anything else you'd like to say?