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

Super Bowl Poetry

Let's put our tuxedos on tonight and take our butterflies out dancing, for tomorrow is near.

We're nervous, we're nervous. How long we've been waiting for this. We see everything happen before it ever happens. We'll close our eyes while visions of greatness float around in our minds.

These are the moments we've been waiting for.

We stay up late reading books about soldiers, trying to win the wars of tomorrow.

We wish our bones were light like bird bones, so we too could fly.

Birds and Soldiers, Birds and Soldiers. We are birds and soldiers. Fully hydrated, full of carbohydrates. Full of hope that we might remember the things we've been taught.

The world is watching. The world is finally watching. Are we fast enough? Are we strong enough? The world is watching, but really all that matters is our moms and dads.

We can hear the crowd already, but is mom smiling? Is dad proud? 

The ball never bounces as we expect it to, no matter how much we practice, no matter how much we pray. We'll chase our enemies with torches and one day ask god for mercy.

Our muscles got us here, but our victories will always only be found in our hearts. 

new semesters

Sure, it's starting again and I'm freaking out a little, but not as much as these 17-year-olds who finally get their shot at WritersParis.

I talk about WritersParis as if it's not in the room with me.

WritersParis is bigger than me.

Every semester it gets bigger. With every blog post it gets bigger. Every pen name. Every intro that tries to be different, but not too different. Every photo, every music playlist, every comment.

I keep thinking it's going to get old. But it doesn't. It hasn't. It won't.

It's as good now as it ever was.

I'm even feeling love for the tourists. The ones who aren't reading this right now, the ones who finish their journal pages before I start the music. The ones who stay home from class because everything can be found on the blog. The ones with the hall pass right now, doing nothing. I want to give them their English credit.

Maybe I'm just feeling too much love these days. Maybe I've let this whole WritersParis thing go to my head, and like God: I love all my children. Even the ones who don't know how to show it.

These new semesters are like baptisms and we're all born again right now. And there's something divine about that.

just a class

Just a class.

Just a class.

It was just a class. 

What's it been, now: 12 years, 92 teachers, 49 Mead notebooks, 31 G2 pens, 12 new pairs of shoes,  2300 recesses, 3 Trapper Keepers, 6 lunchboxes, and 14 backpacks.

This was just a class. Just another class.

There were 480 trips to the bathroom, 6 trips to the nurse's office, 38 days you called in sick,  4 broken hearts, 219 pizza slices, 800 drinks from the drinking fountain, and 44 hours on a school bus.

Your time is running out. They're already printing diplomas for next year's seniors. They're already assigning them lockers and planning school dances. The sophomores have begun planning their senior prom and the freshman have their outfits already picked out for the senior dinner dance.

My 5th grader's working on his senior prank, and my 3rd grader is home sick with senioritis. My daughter cried last night because she didn't get in to Stanford. None of us knows what we want to do with our lives, but you're the one that's running out of time.

You're the one who's getting your 52nd report card out of 54, and you're the one who's pretending to hate everything even though you're already starting to miss it. You're the one who's doing everything for the last time. 

That's over 2500 school days, which means that's over 2500 nights of thinking about tomorrow, thinking about tomorrow, thinking about tomorrow.

And here I am talking about yesterday, when all you can think about is tomorrow.

I guess I just want you to think about today.

This moment right now. Here in the little theater. With the dark lights and the bell about to ring and your shoes that you have on right now.

Because not even the magicians can hold a moment in their hands. 

And todays are yesterdays like every tomorrow.

Too young for a mid-life crisis

I'm 35 and I don't know what I want to do with my life.

HOLD UP: I'm living the dream, molding young minds, raising a young family, excited for Monday mornings, passionate, enthusiastic, alive inside.
BUT: I have a gypsy soul and I'm eating government cheese. #jokes

I've always wanted to be something. So now what?

Everything used to be about getting the girl. Then I got her.
Everything used to be about leaving the job I hated. Then I left.
So now what?

Is this all we'll ever do?

I'm reading a book by Ed Sheeran and I want to be a musician. I'm watching a documentary about Johnny Carson and I want to be on TV. I'm watching Muhammad Ali and I want to be the greatest I want to be the greatest I want to be the greatest. 

I'm far too old for this much ambition.

Shouldn't I be living vicariously through my children by now? I think my son has a game next Saturday.

I'm tired of looking at Facebook. Comparing milestones in Instagram pictures. Liking things we don't like and favoriting things that aren't our favorite. Are we really going to spend every Thursday looking back?

I'm sick of feeling sick when I'm not sick.

I guess I just want to be nervous again. I want to be backstage waiting for my name to be called. The way I felt when she came over after I dropped off our prom pictures. The way I felt at 4:30 during my last shift.

Muhammad Ali started boxing when he was 12 because somebody stole his bike. And Johnny Carson filled in for someone who accidentally knocked himself out before a show. And Ed Sheeran blew up in America after playing at a Poetry Open Mic in Los Angeles.

The future introduces herself all the time.
 
What I'm really trying to say is that I'm not ready to start going through the motions yet.