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.