Discontent

It's been too long
But if I don't say something soon I'm afraid I might lose my voice

39 days since I last wrote something and I wonder where the time went
How many TV shows have I watched?
How many hours have I logged online?
How many books have I read?
How many games have I played with my daughter?

Sometimes life gets in the way of writing
Sometimes writing gets in the way of life

My son thinks he deserves a medal because he went a whole day without playing the playstation
Someone tell him life gets harder than that
Or does it

I'm writing this on my phone because it's too intimidating to sit at the computer
Listening to Drake instead of Coldplay
I can't even hear myself think

There's snow everywhere and I'm just trying to stay warm

I have a feeling it's going to be a long winter.

Open Windows // The Pen Name Anthem

Maybe Andrea Gibson wrote my favorite poem of all time
or maybe it was just the song playing in the background

We write behind pen names like hide and go seek games
you're it, you're it
Just trying to get English credit and you're it

Can you feel the gravity
as young people are letting down their guards
and we all just keep falling

I've never had to tell everyone who I really was,
so I don't know what you're going through
I don't know

Paris was always only a symbol and Harold was always only a failure
I am an open book,

I don't know if I chose Harold or if Harold chose me
I am an open book,

I am a book written in another language

I don't know which poems I've already read in front of the class
and which ones I've only read to my wife
I've been trying to recognize my own voice for decades

This is me trying to open the windows in my classroom

This is me making a list of things to read while he sits in his prison cell
Because we're all doing time
and all we have is time
and all we can give is time
and all we need is time

Sometimes when students write poems dedicated to Paris, I think they're talking to me
and they say things like "I've always loved you"
it makes me feel weird

Maybe I was never Paris
Maybe all of us were
Maybe we still are
Maybe we can still be

Harold Miner means as much to me as Kyle Nelson ever did
and I don't know which one is the real me

I once asked a girl named Kenzie how her older sister Kat was doing
and she looked at me like I was crazy.
Cause see, Kat Stratford was just a pen name of one of my favorite writers
and sometimes I get the virtual world confused with the real world
and I wonder if I even remember that girl's real name
I'm sorry

But you will always be your pen name to me
I'm sorry

We keep changing the greetings on our phones because our voices don't sound right
they never will
even deaf people sometimes cover their ears

even seniors in high school still get excited for school
you keep looking for credit, I promise I'll give you all that you ever needed
no you can not use the hall pass
I'm about to change everything you thought you knew about yourself
sit down

and tomorrow when I call you by your pen name
you probably won't even look

how to fool everyone

step one: become a teacher

step two: sell writing to unsuspecting teenagers

step three: tell them how much they need it, how much you love it, how much they'll love it, how easy it is, how important it is, assign them posts every week, and journal prompts every other day, including five they must do on their own, inspire them, inspire them, inspire them

step four: don't write yourself because you're too busy

step five: remind them how important it is for them to write, even if they're busy

step six: call the busiest ones tourists

step seven: watch netflix instead of write

step eight: read instead of write

step nine: fantasy football instead of write

step ten: join a november novel writing website and pretend you'll stick with it

step eleven: repeat every semester and see how long your heart lasts

Trees and Boys and Other Mysteries

She teaches him how to feed the ducks. She breaks bread, she smiles, she speaks in hushed tones. He stands back, scared at first. What if they come after me? What if I'm not fast enough? The ducks honk and laugh and honk and laugh. They shield their eyes from the sun and the little boy says  

look.

She picks him up and carries him to the shoreline. His words are incomprehensible. His emotion all over his sleeves.

A teenage boy jumps from a structure just North of them. He does a back flip and then rolls up on to his feet, running his hands through his long hair. The little boy just laughs. A fish jumps two feet in the air and belly flops back in the water. The teenage boy leans against a rock with his journal and his thoughts. An old man walks along the trail with the help of walking sticks. The ducks glide along the water.

The leaves are changing, but it's happening too slow for anyone to see.

They'll be dead in six weeks.

And we'll act like we never even saw it coming.

Predictive Poetry

I want to try something different. So I'm writing this on my phone and letting my iPhone help decide what words are next. 

The fact that I can be found 

I'm not sure what I want 

The only thing that could make it so much better 

I love you too and I love you too 

I just got home and I have no idea what to say 

I'm at the end 

I'm not a fan of yours and I don't know if you have to go back to sleep now and then you will never understand why people think they are so cute 

The new version 

The new update 

The new one is the best thing to say 

I'm not 

I'm not 

I'm not sure how 

The only way to get my money back or not I don't know

things we lost in the fire

-There was a secret passageway from the bathroom to the basement and we used it for more than dirty clothes.

-I didn't go there as often as I should have. 

-We used to watch scary movies and I hated scary movies. But we ate popcorn and we replaced our parents with lots of blankets. 

-They used to be young. We all used to be so young.

-My Vietnamese friend came by one time and he didn't feel welcome. 

-It's where I learned how to roll up a sleeping bag.

-They made my parents and my parents made me and God made all of us. 

-I only saw them on holidays. I wonder what they were like on normal days.

-Drinking and swearing and laughing and do we have to go home already?

-The pictures make us think that they lived black and white lives, but nothing is ever that simple.

-She cooked the best rolls and I've never felt safer.

-He painted the best Easters and he painted the best Christmases.

-Now the only time we see each other is funerals and weddings, but I don't seem to remember the weddings anymore.

-It was another world, but it was barely an hour away.

-These memories are pictures of pictures. 

-I wonder how much my own kids will forget. 

Old Faithful

I want to be reliable like that
Church every Sunday
Remember every birthday
Kiss my daughter's knee every time she falls down

But I want to be unpredictable
You never know what to expect
I keep you on your toes
Fun to be around
More alive than a robot,
a clock,
a machine
Something you can't program

I want no one to count on me

sometimes

I don't know what my dad's favorite color is and I'm starting to wonder if that even matters.

We're all sitting around the football game and a guy asks my wife, "How did you guys meet?"

My dad says, "Well, I had sex with his mother and then he was born." I was the only one who laughed.

Sometimes the funniest moments go unappreciated.

My dad stopped drinking when it was too late, but he's still alive. It was his birthday yesterday and he sent me a text at 7:38 pm.

"Thank you so much. One of the best birthdays ever!!! My favorite food, a movie and my family, it doesn't get better than that."

Sometimes there's no poetry in the truth. 

My wife asked him if he had any advice in his 61 years and he said something about following your dreams. He wanted to be a swimmer. He wanted to be a vet. He didn't become either of those things.

Sometimes the best examples are hypothetical.

So today we'll go to my sister's house for dinner. We'll order pizza from The Pie and eat cupcakes and watch football and we'll be happy. We won't think about everything that could've been. We won't listen to the voices from the past or worry about the future.

dead money

I want to write the future.

Hear this as I shout it from office cubicles. Man wasn't meant to die alone
or go unheard
or laugh at other people’s jokes
that aren't funny.
God made fruit
and here is the biggest sin of all.
Young humans wear suits purchased with bored money.
They stop listening to their goosebumps
and they start listening to their news feeds.
Look over there,
behind that old Volkswagen,
you'll see their potential.
Hiding.
Hide and they stopped seeking years ago.
Their porch lights have been burned out all summer
and the neighborhood watch doesn’t notice.
Nobody notices.
Listen to my voice.
It sounds like the rain
when you're inside
and it sounds like your mother
the last time she said your name.
We're all broken.
There are teenagers screaming joy and love
across the streets
as we set our alarms for work in the morning.
5:30, 5:37,
because we never get up
the first time.
My dad told me to be whatever I wanted 
but he drove trucks for a living. 
My son asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up
but I had to finish my presentation
and the crickets are the only ones
who ever tell the truth anymore.
Fire burns because that's the only thing it knows how to do.
Look at us.
College degrees when all we needed was a compass.

All we needed was a match.

Paris Syndrome

Tell me I was right.

Tell me Paris was beautiful. Tell me the Eiffel Tower wasn't a cliche. Tell me the cafes weren't too crowded. Tell me the rain didn't bother you. Tell me the croissants weren't overcooked and tell me the tour guide's accent wasn't too thick.

I know Paris was always only a metaphor.
I just wanted to be inspired.

I wanted to go watch a concert in the park tonight, but nobody else wanted to go. So there goes that feeling in my stomach again. I thought only teenagers felt this way. Now I'm saying things to my son, trying to hurt him. I must be poison.

I spent the afternoon trying to explain Caitlyn Jenner to my mom. I don't think I understand it all myself.

I'm not a woman inside, I just want to be inspired.

I just want to be inspired.

I bought this book like 10 years ago.

Then last week at the thrift shop I saw this:

WHAT THE $%*#?

But I've dedicated my life to Paris, as if Paris were the only place a creative person could dedicate his life to. But I created a Twitter with the WritersParis handle. But I purchased a domain name at WritersParis.com. But I've had students buy me calendars and journals and bring me back things from Paris. But my wife bought me a picture of Paris from Ikea. But I had Paris tattooed across my back in Old English. (Kidding.)

I've struggled to work on my novel this summer. It's much easier to tell wide-eyed teenagers they should be writers than it is to actually be a writer myself.

I guess I just want to be inspired.

So whether it's Paris or San Francisco, I don't know.

Maybe it's Lehi.

Maybe that was the point all along.

ripe love

High school fell in love with Summer on a Friday.

He loved how free she made him feel.
He loved her smell.
He thought she was hot (but so did everybody).
He sat in backyards and thought about her.

She made him want to drink lemonade.
She kept him young.
She burned him.

And when September came, it was over again.

This is a race poem

Yesterday nine black people got murdered by a white kid in South Carolina and I still had to teach summer school today.

Poetry can't fix racism, but all I know how to do is write poems.

So call this is a race poem.

I don't usually get to write race poems because I teach at Lone Peak High School and it's like a bucket of vanilla ice cream at that school. I mean, there's a lot of white. Don't get me wrong. I love vanilla ice cream. But sometimes I like caramel, I'm just saying.

I grew up around caramel. And sprinkles and chocolate, see I grew up in Trailersville and we were Warriors. My mom and my sister were worriers, but me and my friends were Warriors.

Stephen Phung was Vietnamese and Mike Malave was Puerto Rican. Carl Sokia was Fijian and Trey Brown was, well, Black. Tevita Vakalahi was Tongan and Mark Miller...he was White. And so was I and I'm just saying I miss all that color, so when I walked into summer school at Mountain View

I was happy.

I felt like I was home again.

Mi nombre es Kyle Nelson y soy muy Gringo pero soy muy hermoso. Y tambien lo son todos ustedes. Lo siento, Lo siento, Lo siento.

Nobody wants to be here. Even the kids sitting on the leather couches would rather be somewhere else and I don't blame them. I'd rather be somewhere else too.

Even if you've enjoyed my class, enjoyed the videos, the emotion, the poetry, the honesty. Let's be real. It's the middle of June and it's 95 degrees outside. You're not here because you love to learn. You're here so you can get the hell out of here.

And I dig that about you.

So pardon my French, but screw Summer School. You're too good for this place. Let's call this summer semester your last because next summer you'll be too busy working on your body to work on your grammar. You'll be too busy running lemonade stands to run to class. And too busy eating pineapple to worry about spelling it.

Let's learn to love and love to learn, because education will always be our only way out. 

This fall you won't fall. This winter you'll be the winner and this spring you'll be king because that means it's almost summer and we already talked about what you'll be doing next summer.

Last year was the last year you'll finish last. This year is his year. And his year. And her year. And your year. You're gonna remember your pencil and your homework and your mother. You're gonna remember everything she said to you before you walked out and when you return you'll have a medal around your neck because this race ain't over yet. It's just getting started.

So whether you're Puerto Rican or Mexican or Cuban or Dominican or from freaking Lindon, I don't care. Let's call this fall chapter two. Which means chapter one is almost over, and I never liked the beginnings of books anyway.

So finish strong and keep your head up when you run. When you get tired just remember this race poem and know that one bald white teacher believes in you, wherever you are.

A Summer School Love Poem

Class begins at 12:15, but we don't start till 12:20 at the earliest. This is how we do it in the summer.

We keep the blinds closed whether there's rain or sunshine, and we don't tell anyone the real reason we're here.

We use the bathroom
more often than we use our inside voices.

We forget our pencils, but we don't ever forget to bring our tacos and bean and cheese burritos -
it smells like Taco Bell in here all the time,
welcome to summer school.

We're assigned to share poems, but we don't go up.
We get second chances, then we don't show up.
We don't understand that we don't get second chances to grow up.
So hold up
That's why we yell YOLO in the hallways and ride skateboards to class.
This is summer school.

It's 90 degrees out there, but 60 degrees in here.
We are freezing.
And what's cooler than being cool? (Ice cold.)
I can't hear you.
I said what's cooler than being cool? (Ice cold.)
Alright alright alright alright alright alright alright alright alright alright alright alright now ladies.

We're in here learning
while our friends are outside burning.

We don't have to be here.

We could've given up a long time ago, but we still here.

Those speed bumps in the parking lot aren't the only things in our way.
Our lives are under construction, under construction. In the middle of summer.
We apologize for the delay.

But thank you for your patience.

Traffic will be moving along smoothly again real soon.

Paris (b. 2009)

 

 

 

I keep thinking Paris is dead.

The tubes are connected, the machines are beeping, the families are outside waiting. This year was the most dangerous yet. 

There were more residents than ever before. They legalized smoking in all the cafes. Homelessness was a growing problem. And it rained more than it has in over six years.

There were three CW1 classes for the first time ever during first semester. It was too much. There were too many blogs. 100 blogs. 100 voices. 100 hearts. So many fell to the ground without being caught. Without being heard.

Second semester brought two more CW1 classes and we tried CW2. The Parisian streets were on fire. They called in the National Guard, the SWAT team, the riot police. Paris was burning.

There were more hearts touched. More minds opened. More lives changed. But there were also more crackheads between the buildings. 

Today is Memorial Day. Which means tourist season is over. The passports are expiring and the airports are open.

I just want to say goodbye.

I hope you felt inspired. I hope you felt enlightened. I hope you enjoyed the sights. 

Paris was always only a dream. I've never even been there. We may as well call it Paris, Idaho or Parris. We're all stuck here in Utah County and that's the way it's always been. That plane we tried to fly was made out of paper and I don't even have my pilot's license. Thanks for going along with it as long as you did, though.

I'll miss you. I'll be at my desk if you need me. Maybe one day you'll come back with a wedding invitation. Or a book I let you borrow. Or just to visit.

I'll be in room 221.

I'll keep trying to write. I'll keep trying to inspire young people. I'll keep overreacting. I'll keep being bi-polar, ADHD, schizophrenic. I'll keep making videos. I'll keep trying to rap. I'll keep going bald.

Now's the part where you figure out what you're going to do.

Good luck.

You'll know where to find me.
 

Backseat Freestyle (Project #3)

Here we go one time brotha prime time can you find time while you listenin to my rhyme

It’s a fine line between love and hate and we walked it all day like a marathoner’s timeline

I dialed nine time but I couldn’t find a writer on the other line who wasn’t stuck along the sideline

Like a blind mime feelin for the right line drinkin all the time to find he never had a fine wine

UH – that’s much too fast for me

All I wanted was for you to go to class for me

This ain’t the end of the world , this ain’t no catastrophe

But if I tell you how I feel it’s like it’s blasphemy

LOVE MAIL, HATE MAIL

Who knew a bloggggg post could put you in jail?

We built this ship together and then we sailed

The question now is did everybody fail?

I shoulda taken roll more

Listened to cole more

Dribbled behind my back and took the rock up to the rack more

Click clack more

Kanye and shaq more

What you think I rap for, to push a __________ rav-4?

What you so mad for? Oh, not again

He’s gonna storm into class and throw an ottoman

And swear a lot again, that nelson’s drinkin lots of gin

What is he thinking, somebody get him some oxygen

BREATHE IN, BREATHE OUT

Don’t make me shout, I think I’m gonna freak out

Used to believe in myself and you make me doubt

Cuz when I try to ------

That’s what I’m talking about

And you’ve done it twice

So I freak out as if you’ve given me lice

Or I’ve seen mice or you take ice

And put it down my shirt

It doesn’t hurt, but it’s not nice

I know I’m not nice, I’m mean

I have bi-polar disorder or so it seems

Make a mess and then I’m mr. clean

I’m green, this is all new it’s like a dream

We built this plane together ya’ll, we’re on the same team

We had the same dream

It’s not a lame dream

A bunch of young writers came together like the A team

It was amazing

The trails we’re blazing

We wrote an effing book that they can even buy in Beijing

That’s right in Beijing, that’s China

Or even Carolina

We’re more successful now than Harold Miner

And if you’re tryna find a nicer class you’ll never find it

I have a mind to quit my 9-to-5 and be a writer

Love / Hate Mail

Son of Baconator

This is about student apathy.
This is about how I shouldn't talk about student apathy.
It doesn't help. 

The Analogy
My class is like Wendy's. 

• Wendy's: Room 221
• Wendy's Manager: Kyle Nelson
• Wendy's Customer: Student
• Son of Baconator: My lessons

Background
If you've ever had me as a teacher, you know that I often get discouraged. As my wife says, I'm not very good at hiding my feelings. If I'm excited, you'll know it. If I'm annoyed, you'll know it. I'm notorious for voicing my displeasure/inadequacy/doubts with my students. Sometimes that displeasure is with their commitment to my class. They're being tourists. Or sophomores. Or worse. Maybe it's free therapy. Maybe I'm trying to make them feel guilty. I don't know.

This is me realizing that this approach doesn't work.

Explanation
I love Wendy's. I love the Son of Baconator. Almost every one I order is perfect. Because of this, Wendy's is my go-to place. If there's a McDonald's and a Wendy's, I go to Wendy's. If there's a Burger King and a Wendy's, I got to Wendy's. You get the point.

But what if one day I stopped going? I don't know why. Maybe I'm trying to eat healthy. Maybe I'm trying to save money. Whatever. And the next time I pull through the drive-thru, Pete (the manager) comes to the window.

Pete: Hello Kyle.

Kyle: Hey.

Pete: Where you been?

Kyle: Oh. Uh. I don't know.

Pete: We haven't seen you here in a while.

Kyle: Yeah, I've been [enter reason here].

Pete: Well, that makes me feel [enter negative emotion here].

Kyle: Oh. I'm sorry. [mumbles something to himself]

Pete: I spent a lot of time making this Son of Baconator. I don't appreciate when I make something and you don't even eat the whole thing. 

Kyle: Can I just get the burger, please?

[Kyle drives away with weird feeling he didn't ask for with his burger]

Conclusion
If Wendy's bothered me about not eating there enough or made me feel guilty, I would stop going. I go there for the burgers. Not the guilt.

It's up to me whether I'm going to eat there, not them. All they can do is make good burgers.

Dear Flat Stanley

This is a blog analysis for Flat Stanley. She is the sailboat boy. She is the artist who disturbs the comfortable and comforts the disturbed. She was going to name herself Sexual Fetus, but thankfully changed her mind.

Enjoy.

Quotes
 We might die from medication but we sure killed all the pain.

I have grown weary from this game you call Therapy

I am 5'4" with a 6'0" personality. 

Your palms may be a little sweaty, but my hands are a drought that needed the moisture anyway.


Comments

Final Words

I've teased Micah this past week for being a coward. She posted her Video Slam, but then took it down after I told her I'd give her credit. But Micah isn't a coward. She is a very honest writer. She's not afraid to be real, and that's difficult to ask of anyone, especially a teenager. She's not afraid to be vulnerable, and that's inspiring. 
 

We are more similar than you might think.

Her reveal was one of my favorites. She is different and unique and creative and brave and everything I want in a creative writing student.

I'll end with this.

Last Halloween she walked into my classroom and scared the hell out of me. I still see her strange face sometimes when I close my eyes. She said she loves special effects make-up because it helps her "escape from being Micah Mehlhoff for awhile." Micah, you're fine just the way you are.

Pond Slam 2015 aka The Most Alive

These branches hurt when they scratch me.

I've never felt more alive than I do right now. The ducks, the water, young people everywhere. A ten-speed just rode by and I've never felt more alive than I do right now.

In this moment - every sound I hear, a generator, a car driving by, birds chirping, ducks making whatever sounds ducks make, people talking, people walking, a girl screaming, laughing. Everything's good today.

And even though everything isn't good, right now it feels like it is. Right now the sun's shining and my lungs work and Emma just asked if I took roll and I didn't. I didn't take roll today and I've never felt more alive.

I can feel the wind in my hair and even though I don't have any hair, I can still feel the wind and I've never felt more alive.

A weird leaf acorn thing just fell out of the tree and landed on my notebook and it scared me, but I'm still alive - and I'm scared, but I'm still alive. I'm more alive today than I was yesterday.

I'm more alive than you

Sure, you're only 17 and you have your whole life ahead of you and you still have all of your hair and your back doesn't hurt and your legs aren't gonna be sore tomorrow from walking up those freaking stairs, but still

I'm more alive than you

You, who's still talking about last week's prom and did you have a good time and who did you go with? OMG! - You. The one laughing on the fishing deck and chasing the geese across the shore and you're still laughing, you're still laughing, this whole class is laughing.

But I'm more alive than all of you

The 18 of you who didn't even make it to the pond today. I never actually counted because I'm afraid the number might even be higher.

We're all more alive than you

Because being alive is more than your heart rate or your cholesterol. Doctors can't measure it. It's more than your picture collection or how much fun you're having. I'm more alive than you because I have a pen in my hand. And I'm more aware of this moment than anything else.

I'm paying attention.

I used to have a bumper sticker on my car that said "I'm so broke I can't even pay attention." Well, I'm not that broke anymore. And I haven't driven that car for years.

I've written more today than I wrote yesterday.

And next year you'll be gone.

And I'll still be here, writing.

my first nature poem (live)

Something I wrote about my step-brother, Josh. It started out being about nature, but it ended up being about me, about people, about Josh, about death.

One of those three kids riding bikes is my son, Bo.

Sorry I'm so bald. I shaved my head right after watching this video. 

Just Be Yourself

What does this even mean?

Nobody knows who they are. We're all just trying to figure it out. 

I watched Freaky Friday with my kids, and it made me grateful to be 35. Not that I wouldn't want to be 17 again. I think I could be 17 again. Oh, that reminds me, I want to watch 17 Again again.

There's a lot I would do differently, and I think I could do it better the second time around.
But I would need to actually be 17 again. Not just a voodoo switch where I switch back after I learn a lesson.

Here's what sucks about being a teenager:
-You can't stay out past midnight.
-You have to sit in uncomfortable desks all day.
-Homework.
-Low pay.
-Acne.
-Can't vote.
-Your parents don't listen to you.
-How you could start drinking or smoking at any second.
-Peer pressure.
-Caring so much about jeans.
-Caring so much about brands.
-Caring so much about hairstyles.
-Trying to find money for gas.
-Other things.

Here's what sucks about being an adult:
-You can't go to movies whenever you want.
-Belly fat.
-Male Pattern Baldness.
-Annoying teenagers.
-Bills.
-You can vote, but you're too busy or you don't care.
-Your parents don't listen to you.
-You can't have your friend call and quit for you over the phone.
-Worrying about your kids getting hurt or dying or doing drugs or getting bullied or not eating enough or having low self-esteem or having a parent who worries too much about them.
-Facebook was not created for you, but you still have taken it over.
-You wear shirts and hats and jeans that weren't made for you and you look stupid.
-Monotony.
-You start to notice the sand in the hourglass.
-Other things.

So everything sucks. It sucks to be young, it sucks to be old. Yeah, there's good stuff too, and life is great, but life is freaking hard and it sucks sometimes.

I'm just glad I get to be me today. I don't have to pretend to be you or my son or anyone else. I've been trying to figure out who I am for 35 years now, and even though I still don't know for sure, I'm pretty close to cracking the case. And that's liberating.

Being yourself is liberating.

Sometimes you have to fake it for awhile before you get it down fully. But that whole thing can be fun, too. It's like going to the mall with store credit. You get to try on a bunch of different things and decide what looks good on you and what doesn't. (I've been watching way too much Gossip Girl lately.)

Just don't spend too much time worrying about which shirt will make you popular, because I promise- the shirt that will make you popular will definitely be worn by someone else at your school.

And there's nothing worse than being caught wearing the same shirt as someone else. Nothing.

Here's to not having to pretend to be someone else tomorrow.

x-ray vision

Today I saw a picture of my heart for the first time.

I didn't recognize it.

For all the poems, for all the blogs, the journal entries, the letters...I thought for sure it would look familiar to me. But it didn't look familiar. It looked like a foreign language. A foreign country. My mother's cursive.

Tonight I coughed so hard that I understood math for a second. Tonight I coughed so hard I saw stars. Tonight I coughed so hard that I stopped breathing. There's no poetry there, I just wanted to illustrate how hard I was coughing.

Ever since I was 17, my writing has been angst. My words have been longing. My journals have been wish lists. I wrote about trying to get the girl. I wrote about trying to escape the job. I wrote about trying to find my way. I wrote about what it means to be alive.

But this week, I couldn't breathe.

And poetry may help me breathe metaphorically, but I got at least three prescriptions from doctors and poetry wasn't one of them.

Azithromycin? Yes. Amoxicillin? Yes. Hydrocodone? Yes.
Metaphors? No. Truth? No. Beauty? No. 

I've spent seven years watching some young people struggle to find air. I wrote poems about saving them, then I locked my door during lunch. I took attendance and replied to e-mails and sat through meetings. But only this week did I understand what they were really going through.

There's no assignment I can give that will fix your lungs. There's no lesson plan that will remove the weight on your chest. You need azithromycin, You need need amoxicillin.

I have an inhaler you can borrow, but it's running out of inhalations.

I watched more Netflix than I read and wrote combined. I was too tired to create. I felt like my father. I felt like my father. Damn it, people, I felt like my father. 

This is me trying to breathe again. Please join me.

LOVE MAIL

It's my youngest son's birthday, so I shouldn't be thinking about you guys.

But I feel bad.

I'm here at the District watching the Spongebob Squarepants movie and how Spongebob loves everything and I love that about Spongebob.

Mallary continues to surprise me. She's turned into one of my favorite poets and I don't think she was really into poetry before this class.

Michael is hilarious and I've thought so since his sophomore year.

Abby Waters doesn't swear at me even when I mark her absent on accident.

Tanner Johanson must be sick of me by now. English 10, TA, CW1, CW2, is he sick of me yet? Thanks for being real and funny and shy and funny. 
 
Kailee writes sick blog posts like this.

Squidward's talking about giving everyone refunds and I just hope these students don't ask me for a refund.

Morgan and Cass and McCall have broken the cheerleader stereotype. I'm serious. These girls have proven that you can be more than one thing and it's everything I've ever wanted people to get out of my class. They're dope writers and journalers and I'm glad they're in the class. I'm not afraid of cheerleaders anymore.

John melted the girls' hearts as a junior, so I can just imagine what he's doing to them this year. #jernhayes

Reagan has synesthesia and she said it so casually and it sounds amazing and you can read about it here.

Megan is Matt's little sister, and that means a lot to me. But it's getting close to "oh hey, that's Matt. That's Megan's older brother."

Tanner Thompson is Tim's little brother, and it will always be that way and I'm sorry. But his last blog post had me feeling some kind of way. (And I've never used that phrase before in my life.)

Sara is my daughter's favorite.

Plankton's talking about teamwork and he calls Spongebob the worst teammate ever. I felt like that today.

Isaac is good at Lacrosse and drawing and writing and other subjects and footbag and probably everything. And he's humble. What?

Abby Newell is a good person. I asked her to swear yesterday and she wouldn't. But she was smiling as she said it.

Annie probably doesn't do drugs and she probably never will. She took my class as a junior and I don't feel like she's ever left. In a good way.

Madeline is the Shawn Kemp of our class. Freak athlete who could jump out of the gym, but then they sold the Supersonics and I think he has like 17 biological children. I'm not sure that really connects, but I saw some socks at Nordstrom with him on it and I almost bought them even though they were $18. I seriously don't know how this connects with Madeline, but I've written more about her than anyone else, so I don't have time to explain anymore.

Colby has been on my mind since his sophomore year. That sounds really creepy. But I followed you to Arizona and I'm just glad you're home.


JJ wasn't supposed to be in this class, but I'm so glad she is. Her mom favorites some of my tweets.

Micah won the cutest couple with Mitchell Squires in the WritersParis Film Festival and I think she should win cutest couple when she was pretending to be me.

Squidward tells everyone it was fun while it lasted. We only have 16 classes left together.

Natty is Zack's little sister and I can still remember the video she made for the film festival. Just her in the forest. Goofy faces and poetry and it was dope squared.

Mallory, Ashley, and Saige aren't in the class anymore, but they still helped build our broken plane.

Sam is smart and I'm always trying to impress her.

C.J. has all the good ideas and I should do whatever she suggests.

McKay's blog was one of the greatest of all time. I talk trash that girls are the best writers and boys are cowards, but McKay is easily one of the most creative cats in the game. He changed what a blog could be.

Cole is a lyricist. He's a deep thinker who reminds me of myself when I was younger. Only he's much more opinionated and intelligent.

Taylor is straight up now tell me. There's no playing games with her and I DIG THAT ABOUT YOU MAN.

Emma is Clark's sister and I remember I once made the joke that Fruehan sounds like a yogurt, but I don't ever think of yogurt when I see her.

Natalie plays footbag sometimes with us during lunch and her leg bends sort of weird so now we call that kick The Pliler Leg.

Maddi's Beyonce rendition at the Noscars still blows my mind. How could such a powerful voice come out of such a small, quiet person?

Jess should be the president of the class.

Hannah doesn't talk much but she can sing the freaking roof off.

Hailey is directing A Winter's Tale, which plays tomorrow, Thursday, and Friday. Holy crap.

I need to shave my head. I need to trim my nose hairs. I'm doing a TEDx talk tomorrow for crying out loud, I shouldn't be writing this freaking blog post.

But at the end of the Spongebob movie, the dolphin (Bubbles) had a freestyle rap battle with a seagull and it made me think of you guys. This year will always be the specialest....

HATE MAIL

Dear students,

I'm annoyed.

Maybe I shouldn't write this right now, because I'm angry. But I want to get some things off my chest.

I'll start with my "advanced" creative writing class.

Today's Mini-Slam was one of my favorite class periods of all time. But for some reason, here I sit unsatisfied. 

I'm sure the people who need to read this won't. And that's part of what bothers me.

Some of my complaints (in no particular order):
-how often you're tardy
-how often you miss class
-you didn't dress up today
-you never comment on the blog
-you don't write on your blog enough
-you don't read other people's blogs
-how easy you make my class feel

I'm sure there's more.

I feel like I care about this class more than some of you. I know you're teenagers and you're seniors and you just want to leave, but....

I feel like last year's seniors might've deserved this class more than you.

I feel like some of my CW1 students wouldn't take this class for granted.

(I'm sorry for lecturing everyone when not everyone deserves it.)

I just spent almost an hour trying to figure out how to add a slideshow to the blog. I can't get some of you to spend an hour on my class in an entire week.

Like I said, the people who need to read this won't.

Some of you are golden. I'm so happy you're in the class. You're getting so much out of it. But out of 33 students, I bet that number is like 20. That makes me sad.

Some of you are coasting. I wish I knew how to change that.

I feel like the coach whose voice you've heard for a little too long. And you've stopped listening.

I know I'm partly to blame. I've created a very laid back atmosphere and I've been very relaxed and the whole "building the plane as we sail it" thing.

BUT I'M SICK OF TAKING A BACK SEAT TO YOUR OTHER CLASSES.

This is the most important class on your schedule. Quit treating it like the 5th most important class.

I'm so angry. And I'm going to delete this instead of clicking PUBLISH.

It's 3:11 right now and I shouldn't be thinking about your class anymore. My son went to camp yesterday and I want to go home and see him. I miss him. (I just came back to this paragraph...it's 3:33 right now and my daughter just called to ask if I had her backpack. I do. I miss her too. Screw this stupid blog post.)

My CW1 students are revealing their pen names this weekend. I don't know why I wanted to share that, but it's on my mind. Landon's reveal is going to be hard to beat. It's sad to think that my CW1 class is getting more out of their creative writing class than my "advanced" creative writing class. It's probably my fault. They have clear expectations and you don't.

Some of my former students are getting more out of my class than you are. They still write, they still read, they're still present. Some of you are already on your 2-year missions but you're somehow getting credit in my class. Maybe that's why you're absent so much.

I NEED TO STOP COMPLAINING AND GO HOME ALREADY.

I guess I just want us all to get more out of life.

That's it. I'm sorry.

It's just...I was hoping to be happy by March 27th, and I'm not. And we're running out of time together.

Lifeguards (Draft #5)

Here's the original blog post last summer. 

Now I'm working on a poem performance for an upcoming TEDxUVU talk.

I'm going to read this poem to my classes tomorrow and gather feedback. I need to send my final draft to UVU tomorrow (Wednesday). And then I need to memorize the poem for the performance (next Wednesday).

Lifeguards

In 1st grade, I was waving. [wave]
In 2nd grade, I was waving. [wave]
In 3rd grade, I was drowning. [wave]
 
In 6th grade, I was waving again. [wave]
In 9th grade, drowning. [wave]
10th grade, drowning. [wave]
11th grade, drowning. [wave]
12th grade, drowning. [wave] 

I didn't become a teacher because I loved high school.

I did it for the money, money, money.  [wave, wave, wave]

When I was 12 years old, my mother went to see a fortune teller. The lady told my mom that one day I would pull a drowning boy from water and that I would spend the rest of my life trying to save people. 

I thought about becoming a lifeguard, but I'm afraid of sharks and I look weird with my shirt off.

So I wear sweater vests to work
and when I see young people waving in the halls,
I look twice to make sure they're not drowning.

Sometimes fortune tellers get it right. And sometimes they don't. 

You know what. Excuse me, sir. Would you put your phone away, please? I asked you to hold all questions until the end. No, you may not use the bathroom. Don't make me call home. Pay attention, follow along. Don't clean up while I'm talking. The bell doesn't dismiss you, I do. You, in the back, get your head up. No, you may NOT use the bathroom. Don't make me repeat myself. Don't make me repeat myself. 

(Sigh) Maybe I should've become a lifeguard. Maybe I did.

I mean, yeah, we work opposite seasons. But we have more in common than you think. 

Lifeguards and teachers. We got into it for the right reasons. For the children. For the summers. Parents rely on us and teenagers ignore us. We both have big plans. We're going to save up to buy a car, we're going to save the world. We were both going to save the world. But we spent more time blowing our whistles, telling kids to stop running, than we ever did diving in and saving people.

We make less than we should, and everyone thinks we have it easy. Each August adds another five years to our faces.

But we're not the only ones. No matter what you choose to do with your life, it probably won't go as planned. Lawyers got into it to find the truth, but they're too busy looking for technicalities. Doctors got into it to heal people, but they're too busy checking insurance cards. Police Officers got into it for the chase, but they're too busy filling out paperwork.

We'll spend the next offseason wondering if we're doing what we're supposed to.Then some random Tuesday, a kid with a shaved head will wave to us, and we'll decide to do it all over again.

writers and other things

starting now,

you guys can be writers and cheerleaders and writers and lacrosse players and writers and actors

you can be writers and singers and writers and designers and writers and dancers and writers and rappers and writers and pissed off and writers and kind and writers and everything

you can be good friends and writers and chefs and writers and hipsters and writers and artists and writers and AP students and writers

and you can be missionaries and writers and alcoholics and writers and make-up artists and writers and boyfriends and writers and girlfriends

and you can be writers

and you can be little sisters and writers and big sisters and writers and little brothers, big brothers, no brothers and writers

and you can be popular and writers and underdogs and writers and tall and writers and small and writers and business majors and writers and small business owners and writers and gardeners and writers and potheads and writers and procrastinators and writers and OCD and writers and ADHD and writers and LMNOP and writers and left-handed and writers and

I shouldn't have to give you permission, but here I am. 

On the Ropes

Round 1:
It all happens so fast, you don't even remember it.

Round 2:
You bob and weave, you have plenty of energy. One, two. One, two. You stick and move. You float like a butterfly and you smile.

Round 3:
You take a shot to the chin and your knees wobble. Your trainer reminds you to keep your hands up.

Round 4:
You hit your gloves together and go in for more.  You deliver a left-right combination that almost shocks the world. The crowd goes wild. This is what they paid to see.

Round 5:
You take a hit below the belt. You're gonna feel that one tomorrow. 

Round 6:
You see stars and hear bells ring. The ref gives you a standing eight count and asks you if you want to keep going. Yes. 

Round 7:
You're down again. One knee, looking for your mouthpiece. I swear it's around here somewhere. 

Round 8:
Flashback to watching fights with your dad when you were a kid. Saturday night and you never thought you'd lose him. Two more drinks and the lights almost go out forever. 

Round 9:
You're your father's son again. Jab, jab, jab, and dance. This is what it's supposed to look like. Jab, jab, jab, and boom. Haymaker. The crowd's behind you and Disney's thinking about making a movie.

Round 10:
"This kid's got heart."
 
Round 11:
A lull. It happens every couple of rounds. We only have so much energy. You dance and hug, dance and hug. This thing's almost over. 

Round 12:
This is it. It feels like the end, but it lasts forever. Bright lights, crowd cheering, trainers yelling. This is it. You don't knock him out, but he doesn't knock you out either. The bell rings and you wait for the decision.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow was supposed to be just another day.

I took my contacts out, I set my alarm, I got ready.

Then Twitter delivered bad news again. Bad news, bad news. It's all we seem to get anymore even though we tried to cancel our subscription 5 years ago.

No matter how many times it happens, you're never ready.

Never ready.

Why Lone Peak?
whylonepeakwhylonepeakwhylonepeakwhylonepeak

I shouldn't be up this late. I shouldn't be down on the couch. I'm 35 years old, I shouldn't be crying. I shouldn't be writing. If anything, I should be coming up with a new lesson for tomorrow. Because we definitely can't talk about dancing and how it relates to writing. And we definitely can't have our Oscars party.

And I wonder if I can smile, if I can say anything, if I can read another letter, if I will ever take roll again, if I should cancel all assignments from here on out. But teaching is the last thing on my mind.

It's midnight.

Everyone's awake right now trying to figure out if it's their fault.

Maybe it's my fault.

I don't blame you for keeping your son home from school tomorrow. And the next day and the next day. I can't imagine what parents must be thinking. What's in the water, what's in the library, what's in the hallways.

I feel like I've been studying for this question my whole life, but I don't know the answer.

I don't know the answer, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry to every student I don't know. I'm sorry for helping make a video called "We See You" and pretending that it meant something to everyone. I'm sorry for dress codes and expectations and stereotypes. I'm sorry for every time I locked my door during lunch because I wanted to eat lunch by myself. I'm sorry for Be the Change and the Tip Line and every assembly we've ever had. I'm sorry for having my sophomores read a book about a sad girl. I'm sorry for having my seniors write about death. I don't need to assign that topic ever again.

I'm sorry dear. I'm sorry that I asked you if you were awake and then told you the bad news. I should've let you sleep.

I'm sorry for spending 30 minutes in each of my classes today talking about sadness and how do we make things better and depression and how do we make things better and suicide and how do we make things better. If we did that today, what are we supposed to do tomorrow?

Maybe it's not my job to talk about these things. I am an English teacher. It is my job to prepare students for SAGE tests and make sure they know how to use semicolons and verbs. Semicolons and verbs, I am not a counselor. Semicolons and verbs, I am not a bishop. I am not qualified.

I'm sorry for 2008. I was offered a job at Hunter High School in West Valley the same weekend I was offered a job at Lone Peak in Highland. My first instinct was to choose the west side school, because that's where I was told the good teachers were needed. Those west side students needed to be saved. Those east side students would be just fine in spite of their teachers.

Most of them are.

But I've learned that we all need to be saved.

I love you. You're my student, I love you. You sit in my class and you never say anything, I love you. You raise your hand every time I ask a question, I love you. You're a stranger who's just trying to figure out what's going on up at that rich school, I love you. We're all trying to figure it out. You're a parent who thinks it's my fault, I love you. I know you just care about your daughter and you want answers. You want something to be done. You're my wife trying to sleep upstairs, I love you. You're my 10-year-old son asleep in his room. You have no idea what's going on and I promise I won't wake you up anytime soon. You like school, you think your teacher's nice, and you wear your heart on your sleeve. I love you. I don't want you to turn 11. I don't want you to turn 12. I'm scared of everything you'll encounter as a teenager.

Dear everyone in the whole world I've ever met and ever will meet,

Don't kill yourself. I love you.

I'll see you tomorrow.

Tomorrow was supposed to be just another day. But now it's 1am and tomorrow is today.

With a heavy heart,
Kyle Nelson

all the places we've lived

We grew up in the same city and maybe it was all meant to be. 

Maybe we're working off the same treasure map. 

Maybe we found the same cheat codes.

You grew up on Hathaway and I've been chasing you ever since.

You were the Presidential Suite, you were the bend in the road, the phantom that I drove past four times before I finally found. 

We've lived here for 14 years now, so I don't know how I could ever get lost.

Thank you for leaving the light on for me just in case.

We used to live on Riverside Drive, but it felt like it was main street. Home has always felt like main street.

I see you in every place, every city, every town.

Your map is written in braille - I can see it with my eyes closed.

A west side soul with Sandy hair

South Jordan hands and Lehi strength

But Rachel, dude, you have Taylorsville in your eyes. A West Jordan face with a K-Town booty.

Sure, I can still smell Ephraim smoke on your clothes

It's on all of our clothes

And your lips will always be Salt Lake.

We're surrounded by mink farms, but I can't smell anything. They say love is blind, we must have anosmia. Because our love is the shit.

Believe me, we've paid our H.O.A. dues.

we're done walking to zoos

We don't leave open our garage door
and our cat doesn't bring us dead birds anymore

See, Riverside was lonely. And Hathaway wasn't.

Sunnyside was cloudy and we could smell Asian food through the cinder block walls. 

We discovered new planets. 

We discovered new worlds.

But when we landed on Plymouth Rock, the foundation broke,

and the planes were so loud on Brittany Park that we thought they were going to land on our roof.

You are the road ahead and you're everything in my rear view mirror.
Your lip gloss tastes like 1999 and your laugh sounds like the future.

I keep putting my stuff in the back of moving vans, but my heart's always been in your hands.

 

I took a virtual tour of our future - it's full of light and unfinished basements.

Room to grow, room to grow.

We're as bright as the reception center lights ever were.

High School Love

For every high school couple I see that warms my heart, there are 10 that make me want to vomit. Like straight up - into the toilet - out the nose too - VOMIT.

Because they make me sick (like Strawberry Quik).

Holding hands instead of textbooks
Walking through the halls like they're on sandy beaches in Mexico
Like teenage love is gonna last forever
Like forever?
Forever ever, forever ever?
Like, we all know it ain't lasting till the end of the week

Because I heard from Bobby's cousin Ronnie that she didn't even want to go with him in the first place and did you hear what Katie said yesterday in the car unh unh unh oh no he didn't! Say what? He said what? 

And every day - all day - in every single hallway

Their sweaty fingers interlocked like the zippers on their backpacks or the braces on their teeth
sometimes they kiss outside my classroom and the braces on their teeth
cheetos and sugar free chocolate chip cookies everywhere
thanks Michelle Obama
the braces on their teeth, the braces on their teeth
HELP ME RHONDA

Maybe this Saturday we should have a benefit concert for PATIENCE
We need to raise awareness

Because these gangly teenagers with pointy elbows and malnutritioned hearts think they need to grow up and buy promise rings and anniversary presents when little do they know that they have the rest of their lives to turn into their parents.

And really, I'm just afraid you'll turn out like my parents.  Divorced at 33 with two kids. Two kids who met in high school. Divorced at 33 with two kids. Paying the light bill with monopoly money and signing all their checks with crayons.

We'll never be younger than we were yesterday
and why don't they make iPhone apps for do-overs?

Can't we just kiss without holding hands?

Can't I call you bae without having to change my Facebook status?

I mean, no disrespect, it's not just about getting busy or claiming land or breaking hearts. We're talking about practice. Not a game, not a game, not a game. We talking about practice.

You need more time to work on your crossover. This is your coach telling you to get on the line. No more one-on-one. We're playing zone. So move your feet and get your hands up.

lowercase musings

i don't know

i guess i'm just sick of these hipster blogs talking about crayons and cigarettes and the moon and the stars and our hearts and the way things used to be and i just want to do something different

i want to do something different, something different

i'm listening to christian rap right now and i want to do something different

my dad doesn't watch the super bowl with me anymore and i don't care how good the wings were

how am i supposed to go to church on super bowl sunday? this feels like a test, and i have test anxiety and there's a reason why i never got a scholarship

my favorite blogs write in lowercase these days and it bugs me, but here i am doing the same thing

i don't have time for punctuation and being an english teacher aint mean nothing to me sometimes;
sometimes i ask english teachers how they doing in the hall and they say

i'm doing well

i say good

i wish i had a bathroom in my classroom

[beatbox]

i wish i had a bathroom in my classroom

uhhh

i spend more time tickling my daughter than i spend listening to her

i wrote a poem about staying alive and this kid came in my classroom to tell me how depressed he was and all i could think of was how much i needed to finish the poem about staying alive

he was right in front of me

i need to do something different

stevie wonder did all these things when he was blind and i guess i just need to wake the eff up and look around

i faked my eye exam when i was 11 because i thought it'd be cool to have glasses

so here we are