Another week in ASU, another rap in class. Ironically, we're talking about how positive reinforcement is the best way to make a class work, rather than rewards and punishment; the professor had asked for a copy of my last poem, and published it on the back of his handout (to all his classes). Correspondingly, I gave him another poem.
Studies show that reinforcement
has a longer lasting effect
because punishment only lasts
as long as you’re breathing down their neck
see, it doesn’t get internal or stick
if you just stop and punish ‘em quick
look at it this way
they may only behave when you look
but start to hate you
like a fish watching a hook
it makes nothing lasting, nothing intrinsic
it might work in the short-term
but no matter how you spin it
a temporary increase in compliance
only hides a growing need for defiance
you’re not teaching them how to behave
you’re offering none of the praise that they crave
you’re not reducing the chances
that they misbehave again
simply smacking down in the moment
right there and then
positive reinforcement has all of these benefits
so give me just a couple of bars to sell it
I’m here to tell you that reinforcing classroom behavior
is quite simply and potentially a class management savior
it simultaneously teaches what’s expected
while giving them a reason to do it undirected
like a pulling a scary white rabbit out of a hat
you can teach dogs to drool for beef fat
with nothing more than the clanging of a bell
so use some conditioning to reinforce, reward, and sell
just remember and don’t forget
to spread out your rewards
so they don’t get dependent on candy
and just your words keep them focused, not bored
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Motivation (ASU)
Since I've stopped writing rhyming poetry for a while, and have been writing slam, I've been randomly inspired to freewrite raps in one of my Monday night ASU classes, about whatever we're discussing in class that day.
One week, we talked about motivating kids:
In your classroom you need to have it, some motivation
It’s what drives your kids to mental perspiration
It’s easily built by giving them self-determination
If you don’t really care, give ‘em a choice
There’s something empowering about that little voice
When they believe the classroom is theirs
They buy into the rules they see them as more fair
If you can make ‘em believe they can do it
They’ll find within the power to get through it
They’ll be excited for the time they come to your class
They’ll jump into assignments you won’t need to harass
You can build it with candy and phone calls home
Something extrinsic to get the motivation goin
But then academics are just the means to an end
You gotta get to the point when the rewards are in their head
and in their heart
They push to the end from the start
because they want it for themselves
they don’t need the whistles and the bells
they just want it because they can
they see their future in the palm of their hand
and they see how your class is going to get them there
so it becomes no longer a burden to bear
but a place where they know someone cares
and from deep down inside they believe
the simple awesome truth – that they can achieve
so they’re game to buckle down and learn
they’ll raise their hands and wait their turn
cause you found the key to the ignition
the special ingredient cooking in your classroom kitchen
motivation
One week, we talked about motivating kids:
In your classroom you need to have it, some motivation
It’s what drives your kids to mental perspiration
It’s easily built by giving them self-determination
If you don’t really care, give ‘em a choice
There’s something empowering about that little voice
When they believe the classroom is theirs
They buy into the rules they see them as more fair
If you can make ‘em believe they can do it
They’ll find within the power to get through it
They’ll be excited for the time they come to your class
They’ll jump into assignments you won’t need to harass
You can build it with candy and phone calls home
Something extrinsic to get the motivation goin
But then academics are just the means to an end
You gotta get to the point when the rewards are in their head
and in their heart
They push to the end from the start
because they want it for themselves
they don’t need the whistles and the bells
they just want it because they can
they see their future in the palm of their hand
and they see how your class is going to get them there
so it becomes no longer a burden to bear
but a place where they know someone cares
and from deep down inside they believe
the simple awesome truth – that they can achieve
so they’re game to buckle down and learn
they’ll raise their hands and wait their turn
cause you found the key to the ignition
the special ingredient cooking in your classroom kitchen
motivation
three small words
Josie and the Pussycats. That's pretty much it. My little sister had the movie and album years ago, I liked the song, and I always wondered what they were. This poem came out of that thought process - I went from that, to wondering what a short trip it was from "I love you" to "I hate you." And I had this mental image of a short "10 Things I Hate About You" type exchange:
"I love you!"
"I love you? I had you."
In my head, it could have meant fooled; it could have meant sexually; it could have been both in one conversation. Anyway, this poem was the experiment that came from that, and it's much shorter.
three little words
so much power
so much story
a quick trip
because some how
I love you
becomes
I hate you
I knew you
Three little words
I see you
I spotted you
I like you
I heard you
I asked you
three little words
what’s your name
I flirted you
I called you
I see you
three little words
I want you.
I crave you
I kiss you
I taste you
I ate you
I liked you
I rode you
I haad you!
A strange realization
I like you
I’m seeing you
We’re chilling now
We’re sorta together
Yeah, it’s official
Three small words
We’re dating now
We’re a couple
Table for two
and the lady?
three simple words
I believe you
I trust you
I’m with you
I am yours
I’m into you
I’m on you
I’m under you
I’m beside you
I’m for you
I match you
I hold you
I cuddle you
I snuggle you
Three wild words
I love you
I need you
Three short words
I love you
I need you
Three gaping lies
I was yours
You were mine
We were great
Three past truths
I loved you
I needed you
I trusted you
Three huge mistakes
I believed you
I held you
I loved you
I lost you
I ache you
I crave you
I miss you
I want you
I love you
Three simple facts
I’m not okay
I’m not healed
But it’s better
Than the memories
Thanks for those
and all this
Three short words
A simple lie
A dirty phrase
I loved you
"I love you!"
"I love you? I had you."
In my head, it could have meant fooled; it could have meant sexually; it could have been both in one conversation. Anyway, this poem was the experiment that came from that, and it's much shorter.
three little words
so much power
so much story
a quick trip
because some how
I love you
becomes
I hate you
I knew you
Three little words
I see you
I spotted you
I like you
I heard you
I asked you
three little words
what’s your name
I flirted you
I called you
I see you
three little words
I want you.
I crave you
I kiss you
I taste you
I ate you
I liked you
I rode you
I haad you!
A strange realization
I like you
I’m seeing you
We’re chilling now
We’re sorta together
Yeah, it’s official
Three small words
We’re dating now
We’re a couple
Table for two
and the lady?
three simple words
I believe you
I trust you
I’m with you
I am yours
I’m into you
I’m on you
I’m under you
I’m beside you
I’m for you
I match you
I hold you
I cuddle you
I snuggle you
Three wild words
I love you
I need you
Three short words
I love you
I need you
Three gaping lies
I was yours
You were mine
We were great
Three past truths
I loved you
I needed you
I trusted you
Three huge mistakes
I believed you
I held you
I loved you
I lost you
I ache you
I crave you
I miss you
I want you
I love you
Three simple facts
I’m not okay
I’m not healed
But it’s better
Than the memories
Thanks for those
and all this
Three short words
A simple lie
A dirty phrase
I loved you
homo electronicus
This one doesn't actually have a title.
I read this article in GQ, about the singularity.
Not the singularity where the universe began, a point of infinite density, heat, and minute size, but where computers can increase their own intelligence (AI is real), and the possibilities that entailed.
I went off on a whole mind journey with that motherfucker; I'm going to get a couple poems out of that. Maybe a couple of stories, like an updated vision of how we get to 1984, as well.
Anyway, one of my ideas from the GQ article is about what makes us human. Part of the article talked about being able to make computers legitimately "creative," to have them produce music, novels, television, etc. That fucked with me, and it led to this.
let me lay some calculus upon you
my question is this
is oral sex
worth the existence of murder?
nah
let me try again
is the smell of your lover’s hair
woth allowing child abuse
to exist?
could you trade the opera
for all the deaths in Rwanda
and swap the sunrise
for curing hunger
somewhere else
one of those unfortunate places
that are always being rocked by earthquakes and tsunamis
let me lay this calculus on you
if you could trade
all orgasms ever
for world peace
if you could end disease worldwide
at the price of ending all pleasure
and end all human suffering
by deleting all human happiness
could you do it?
could you not?
I’m looking at my laptop
and I see the future of mankind
and the end of humanity
because I do not know
that you can have a rose without the thorns
or tequila without the toilet
if you can have love without pain
and happiness without misery
I believe you can’t have heat
without cold
and light without dark
but we’re going to find out
the battle royale of ethics
is just around the corner
Nietzsche and god may be dead
but they’re about to turn in their graves
and Plato, Plato is going to be pissed!
In the coming battle with the robots,
in the war with the machines,
we don’t need John Connor to lead us
I know how we survive
if you can’t beat ‘em, join em
we are the connected generation
maybe you couldn’t fit a computer
inside of a small house
fifty years ago
but now
we can strap tentacles onto them
and send them into your arteries
to examine your heart
Thirty years after
George Lucas dreamed of light sabers
and we built them to fix our corneas
we are the connected generation
and we are set to swap
homo erectus
for
homo electronicus
we are set
to make algorithms
of the final frontier
of our consciousness.
Let me lay this calculus upon you.
we’ve got the library of Alexandria
crammed onto microchips
tighter than the angels dancing on a pin
before we killed god
and declared ourselves the omega
we like to fix things
to improve things
the thalidomide flower children
can tell you all about it
so think of the logic in this calculus
we’ve got our cell phones and crackberries
and I think it’s only a matter of time
before they go to our heads
and we get the perfectly portable
hands free headset
one quick nick at purchase
voice activated
and a double-tap to end the call
we’ve got prosthetic limbs
and they’ll get biomechanical soon
we can remove and implant organs
we can almost grow them in jars
and as soon as we can build them
with the most efficient materials (!)
we’ll crank ‘em out by the thousands
artificial scabs to replace the picketing workers
of our aging, downsizing bodies
and how quick is it from a mechanical heart
to a mechanical eye
to a fiberglass optic nerve
to a crystal brain with upbeat software
let me lay some dirty calculus upon you
we like to fix things?
yeah, abnormalities defects
hyperactivity depression attention deficit
lethargy insomnia
if we’ll crank some pills to improve our mood
drop a few pounds
fall asleep
wake up
get hard
and pack on a little more muscle
is it really so strange to think
that we would download an app
to improve our mood
stimulate creativity
delete our bad thoughts
calm. Our abnormal thoughts
of violence pain jealousy
apathy
let me feed you this calculus
our computers are finally learning to learn
the final step towards a truly artificial intelligence
and once that thing learns
to teach itself to learn faster
these Star Wars dreams are not far away
in years
they are close in our dreams and wishes
and if they can move
from building organs to brains
to improving our hardware
then I’m sure it can figure out
how to reproduce and edit our mental programming
than I’m sure it can produce
some mental software
to improve upon our own
mathematically operationalizing
the thought processes of the human mind
recreating it in a software program
with the ability and desire to improve itself
I barely know what the fuck that means
but I understand the calculus
of hitting a button
to create a Van Gogh
a Shakespeare
a Mitch Hedberg
a Hitler
a Gandhi
a Bill Hicks
a fucking Jerry Bruckheimer
on demand, instant, ready to go
and something about taking the Jack London
Cesar Chavez Simon Bolivar Sitting Bull
and Cleopatra
from the human quilt
and stitching them into a computer chip
something about that makes them seem
a little less human
a little less strange, rare, wild, and beautiful
I want my tears raw real
I want my pleasure soft, I want it hard
I want my rock stars dead
and this calculus
of improving our eyes and body and mind
when we can improve
not just our hardware
but upgrade our software
how long is it
before we become software ourselves
before we upload ourselves
get rid of our hardware
shed our mortal coil
not just to meet death
but to defeat it
obtain immortality through digital-ity
and back ourselves up on disk.
we can cure everything
we can cure the world of our physical selves
we can cure all our problems
but if everybody’s perfect
nobody’s special
and I think there’s something
about the heart
that makes love and hate a reality
the blood
you can’t burn with anger and passion
if you’re cold silicone circuits
I think we may often imitate
but never duplicate
humanity
let me lay this calculus on you
machines do not get hungry
machines do not get sick
and it doesn’t need to feel
pain or jealousy or heartbreak
it can just delete it
would you really choose
to keep it
if you had the choice?
this could be you
gigabytes of ones and zeroes
able to live forever
with no hunger or thirst
no sadness fear or despair
no abuse or misery
no more suffering
just pay with your taste
your touch, your skin
no more love, courage, or sunsets
no pleasure, delight, or surprise
I don’t think machines can be in a good mood
or that you can even have good without bad
so the question is
can you keep the baby
if it means keeping the bathwater
can you keep your music
if it means drowning and degenerative disease
can you keep creativity and humor
if it means bodies crushed in earthquakes
can you keep love
if it means children will lie in streets
with flies waiting in their eyesockets
for their lungs to stop gasping
let this calculus weigh on you
I don’t think I could keep them
but I don’t know that I could give them up
I hear that’s the self-preservation instinct
of archaic biological consciousness
I wonder if my answer
would be different
if I was unemployed, hungry, and cold
in the greatest country in the world
if I raked my living in sweatshop blood
striving to make Hilfiger iPods
if I lived in the Gaza Strip
and dodged shrapnel frappucinos
on the way to work
if my village faced a deadly epidemic
of the common cold
let me lay this calculus upon you
even if it meant no passion
no air
no creativity pleasure or sacrifice
wouldn’t you pick life over death?
I’m looking at my laptop
I see the future of mankind
and the end of humanity
I know how we survive
if you can’t beat ‘em, join em
I read this article in GQ, about the singularity.
Not the singularity where the universe began, a point of infinite density, heat, and minute size, but where computers can increase their own intelligence (AI is real), and the possibilities that entailed.
I went off on a whole mind journey with that motherfucker; I'm going to get a couple poems out of that. Maybe a couple of stories, like an updated vision of how we get to 1984, as well.
Anyway, one of my ideas from the GQ article is about what makes us human. Part of the article talked about being able to make computers legitimately "creative," to have them produce music, novels, television, etc. That fucked with me, and it led to this.
let me lay some calculus upon you
my question is this
is oral sex
worth the existence of murder?
nah
let me try again
is the smell of your lover’s hair
woth allowing child abuse
to exist?
could you trade the opera
for all the deaths in Rwanda
and swap the sunrise
for curing hunger
somewhere else
one of those unfortunate places
that are always being rocked by earthquakes and tsunamis
let me lay this calculus on you
if you could trade
all orgasms ever
for world peace
if you could end disease worldwide
at the price of ending all pleasure
and end all human suffering
by deleting all human happiness
could you do it?
could you not?
I’m looking at my laptop
and I see the future of mankind
and the end of humanity
because I do not know
that you can have a rose without the thorns
or tequila without the toilet
if you can have love without pain
and happiness without misery
I believe you can’t have heat
without cold
and light without dark
but we’re going to find out
the battle royale of ethics
is just around the corner
Nietzsche and god may be dead
but they’re about to turn in their graves
and Plato, Plato is going to be pissed!
In the coming battle with the robots,
in the war with the machines,
we don’t need John Connor to lead us
I know how we survive
if you can’t beat ‘em, join em
we are the connected generation
maybe you couldn’t fit a computer
inside of a small house
fifty years ago
but now
we can strap tentacles onto them
and send them into your arteries
to examine your heart
Thirty years after
George Lucas dreamed of light sabers
and we built them to fix our corneas
we are the connected generation
and we are set to swap
homo erectus
for
homo electronicus
we are set
to make algorithms
of the final frontier
of our consciousness.
Let me lay this calculus upon you.
we’ve got the library of Alexandria
crammed onto microchips
tighter than the angels dancing on a pin
before we killed god
and declared ourselves the omega
we like to fix things
to improve things
the thalidomide flower children
can tell you all about it
so think of the logic in this calculus
we’ve got our cell phones and crackberries
and I think it’s only a matter of time
before they go to our heads
and we get the perfectly portable
hands free headset
one quick nick at purchase
voice activated
and a double-tap to end the call
we’ve got prosthetic limbs
and they’ll get biomechanical soon
we can remove and implant organs
we can almost grow them in jars
and as soon as we can build them
with the most efficient materials (!)
we’ll crank ‘em out by the thousands
artificial scabs to replace the picketing workers
of our aging, downsizing bodies
and how quick is it from a mechanical heart
to a mechanical eye
to a fiberglass optic nerve
to a crystal brain with upbeat software
let me lay some dirty calculus upon you
we like to fix things?
yeah, abnormalities defects
hyperactivity depression attention deficit
lethargy insomnia
if we’ll crank some pills to improve our mood
drop a few pounds
fall asleep
wake up
get hard
and pack on a little more muscle
is it really so strange to think
that we would download an app
to improve our mood
stimulate creativity
delete our bad thoughts
calm. Our abnormal thoughts
of violence pain jealousy
apathy
let me feed you this calculus
our computers are finally learning to learn
the final step towards a truly artificial intelligence
and once that thing learns
to teach itself to learn faster
these Star Wars dreams are not far away
in years
they are close in our dreams and wishes
and if they can move
from building organs to brains
to improving our hardware
then I’m sure it can figure out
how to reproduce and edit our mental programming
than I’m sure it can produce
some mental software
to improve upon our own
mathematically operationalizing
the thought processes of the human mind
recreating it in a software program
with the ability and desire to improve itself
I barely know what the fuck that means
but I understand the calculus
of hitting a button
to create a Van Gogh
a Shakespeare
a Mitch Hedberg
a Hitler
a Gandhi
a Bill Hicks
a fucking Jerry Bruckheimer
on demand, instant, ready to go
and something about taking the Jack London
Cesar Chavez Simon Bolivar Sitting Bull
and Cleopatra
from the human quilt
and stitching them into a computer chip
something about that makes them seem
a little less human
a little less strange, rare, wild, and beautiful
I want my tears raw real
I want my pleasure soft, I want it hard
I want my rock stars dead
and this calculus
of improving our eyes and body and mind
when we can improve
not just our hardware
but upgrade our software
how long is it
before we become software ourselves
before we upload ourselves
get rid of our hardware
shed our mortal coil
not just to meet death
but to defeat it
obtain immortality through digital-ity
and back ourselves up on disk.
we can cure everything
we can cure the world of our physical selves
we can cure all our problems
but if everybody’s perfect
nobody’s special
and I think there’s something
about the heart
that makes love and hate a reality
the blood
you can’t burn with anger and passion
if you’re cold silicone circuits
I think we may often imitate
but never duplicate
humanity
let me lay this calculus on you
machines do not get hungry
machines do not get sick
and it doesn’t need to feel
pain or jealousy or heartbreak
it can just delete it
would you really choose
to keep it
if you had the choice?
this could be you
gigabytes of ones and zeroes
able to live forever
with no hunger or thirst
no sadness fear or despair
no abuse or misery
no more suffering
just pay with your taste
your touch, your skin
no more love, courage, or sunsets
no pleasure, delight, or surprise
I don’t think machines can be in a good mood
or that you can even have good without bad
so the question is
can you keep the baby
if it means keeping the bathwater
can you keep your music
if it means drowning and degenerative disease
can you keep creativity and humor
if it means bodies crushed in earthquakes
can you keep love
if it means children will lie in streets
with flies waiting in their eyesockets
for their lungs to stop gasping
let this calculus weigh on you
I don’t think I could keep them
but I don’t know that I could give them up
I hear that’s the self-preservation instinct
of archaic biological consciousness
I wonder if my answer
would be different
if I was unemployed, hungry, and cold
in the greatest country in the world
if I raked my living in sweatshop blood
striving to make Hilfiger iPods
if I lived in the Gaza Strip
and dodged shrapnel frappucinos
on the way to work
if my village faced a deadly epidemic
of the common cold
let me lay this calculus upon you
even if it meant no passion
no air
no creativity pleasure or sacrifice
wouldn’t you pick life over death?
I’m looking at my laptop
I see the future of mankind
and the end of humanity
I know how we survive
if you can’t beat ‘em, join em
Two Dead Men
I've been making a list of poems to write, including 10 or 12 political ones. I saw an Eisenhower quote the other day, and all of a sudden, this poem sprang out almost entire - it tied into one of my ideas. Even cooler, I'm definitely giving this to my kids next week, along with the poem about Taylor Ault, to have them try their hand at "found poetry" after AIMS.
One fun thing about this one - when I perform it, I get to wave two fingers around constantly, to contrast peace signs and victory signs - and do a little Nixon at the end.
two dead men
a drug-addicted comedian
a Republican president
two dead men
one single observation
shrapnel
doesn’t taste very good
and it’s a little lacking
in the essential vitamins and minerals
a dead comedian
had a dream
a dead British singer
would have liked
take all the money we spend
on weapons and defense
each year
and instead
spend it
feeding, clothing, and educating
the poor of the world
which it would
many times over
not one human being excluded
and we can explore space
together
both inner and outer
forever
in peace
dreamer
dreaming like a guy
with more drugs
than your average jam band
but he’s not the only one
two dead men
a drug-addicted comedian
a Republican president
can both recognize
that we do not eat metal
shrapnel doesn’t taste very good
but it can cure world hunger
one closed mouth at a time
dead men tell no tales
nor need their daily bread
ask Pol Pot
how to solve a hunger problem
ask Saddam Hussein
how to solve a hunger problem
ask Idi Amin Slobodan Milosevic
ask the Armenian sultans before World War I
ask the Tutsi
if the machetes
quenched the hunger in their belly
dead men tell no tales
but they’ve got some answers
to our problems
if we’re going to take food
from the mouths of babes
we should be kind enough
to feed them the steel
we paid for instead
two dead men
a drug-addicted comedian
but also
a Republican president
every gun that is made
every warship launched
every rocked fired
signifies in the final sense
a theft
from those who hunger
and are not fed
from those who are cold
and are not clothed
you know
what he’s talking about
because you live
at the scene of the crime
down at home
here in Oceania
the man in Tennessee
who lay dead in the parking lot
outside the emergency room
where they dragged him
and left him
the boy in New York
dead in his mother’s arms
because the cavity
spread its brown gangrene
from his jaw
to his gray matter
one was dragged out to die
and the other never even made it
to the doctor
because they didn’t have insurance
it wasn’t murder
because they didn’t have insurance
you know the scene of the crime
here in Oceania
you see it in the movies
the classrooms that you hear about
the wasteland
with graffitied desks and glazed eyes
we can’t pay for new books chairs or pencils
the 2010 federal budget
allotted half a hundred billion for education
and two-thirds of a trillion
for those guns warships and missiles
the toilet paper in the bathrooms
ran out last week
I heard they’re using it
to wipe clean the streets
around the Green Zone
there’s always someone standing
at the corner of the interstate
with an empty belly and an open hand
the homeless shelters are closing
the lights are flickering
at the unemployment office
and the subsidies to pay the gas bill
in public housing complexes
for single working mothers
we’re using the fuel
to burn desert sands
into bloody fused glass
this is Oceania
this is the price
of victory
we could pay for our streets
and our Michigan bridges
to pave our highways clean
into renewed inner cities
but we’re paying to pour
carpet-bomber concrete
in Afghani mountains
ask the Ninth Ward
if they wanted to pay
for that victory
with the concrete from their levees
and we didn’t even need to
we could do so much at home
we could do so much everywhere
if we stopped buying victory
by maintaining obsolete weapons
and for any
homophobic redneck 2nd Amendment
flag-waving pencil-dicked motherfuckers
who need me to elaborate
on the definition of obsolete
it means do not use this gun
unless you like getting skullfucked
we could junk those guns
we could junk those warships
we could junk those missiles
we could pay for victory
with a little less theft
with a little less obsolete
but we live in Oceania
and we didn’t listen to Orwell
a comedian and a President
told us about theft and love
about the cost of our bombs
about the path to victory
but we didn’t listen to Orwell
he already knew we’d fight
with Eurasia against Eastasia
and pay the mountain men
with the funds
for free school lunches
but one September salvo
changed all that
we were always at war
nothing has changed
check your flags
we should’ve listened to Orwell
and if nothing’s ever changed
maybe we’re paying for nothing
to never come
we live in Oceania
and two dead men
are telling us the price
of a victory that may never come
not through fighting
I’d wave my peace signs
because I’m a dreamer
and I’m not the only one
but that’s not the price of victory
if we pay for the guns
instead of food and shelter
then that’s called opportunity cost
the something else
we could’ve paid for
now those two dead men
are not economists
so maybe
they could just say it plain
they could tell us that
our broken schools
and drowned levees
the children lost
to gang violence
the newborn and elderly
aching for their pain medication
they are the price of victory
so when another dead man
sends me one single thought
one sole idea
written in red
on every beachhead
from Australia to Tokyo
that there is no substitute for victory
there is not a lot
I can say to that
nothing that two dead men
have to say
about stealing from the hungry
and exploring together
no peace sign I can wave
beats the simple claim
that
there is no substitute for victory
One fun thing about this one - when I perform it, I get to wave two fingers around constantly, to contrast peace signs and victory signs - and do a little Nixon at the end.
two dead men
a drug-addicted comedian
a Republican president
two dead men
one single observation
shrapnel
doesn’t taste very good
and it’s a little lacking
in the essential vitamins and minerals
a dead comedian
had a dream
a dead British singer
would have liked
take all the money we spend
on weapons and defense
each year
and instead
spend it
feeding, clothing, and educating
the poor of the world
which it would
many times over
not one human being excluded
and we can explore space
together
both inner and outer
forever
in peace
dreamer
dreaming like a guy
with more drugs
than your average jam band
but he’s not the only one
two dead men
a drug-addicted comedian
a Republican president
can both recognize
that we do not eat metal
shrapnel doesn’t taste very good
but it can cure world hunger
one closed mouth at a time
dead men tell no tales
nor need their daily bread
ask Pol Pot
how to solve a hunger problem
ask Saddam Hussein
how to solve a hunger problem
ask Idi Amin Slobodan Milosevic
ask the Armenian sultans before World War I
ask the Tutsi
if the machetes
quenched the hunger in their belly
dead men tell no tales
but they’ve got some answers
to our problems
if we’re going to take food
from the mouths of babes
we should be kind enough
to feed them the steel
we paid for instead
two dead men
a drug-addicted comedian
but also
a Republican president
every gun that is made
every warship launched
every rocked fired
signifies in the final sense
a theft
from those who hunger
and are not fed
from those who are cold
and are not clothed
you know
what he’s talking about
because you live
at the scene of the crime
down at home
here in Oceania
the man in Tennessee
who lay dead in the parking lot
outside the emergency room
where they dragged him
and left him
the boy in New York
dead in his mother’s arms
because the cavity
spread its brown gangrene
from his jaw
to his gray matter
one was dragged out to die
and the other never even made it
to the doctor
because they didn’t have insurance
it wasn’t murder
because they didn’t have insurance
you know the scene of the crime
here in Oceania
you see it in the movies
the classrooms that you hear about
the wasteland
with graffitied desks and glazed eyes
we can’t pay for new books chairs or pencils
the 2010 federal budget
allotted half a hundred billion for education
and two-thirds of a trillion
for those guns warships and missiles
the toilet paper in the bathrooms
ran out last week
I heard they’re using it
to wipe clean the streets
around the Green Zone
there’s always someone standing
at the corner of the interstate
with an empty belly and an open hand
the homeless shelters are closing
the lights are flickering
at the unemployment office
and the subsidies to pay the gas bill
in public housing complexes
for single working mothers
we’re using the fuel
to burn desert sands
into bloody fused glass
this is Oceania
this is the price
of victory
we could pay for our streets
and our Michigan bridges
to pave our highways clean
into renewed inner cities
but we’re paying to pour
carpet-bomber concrete
in Afghani mountains
ask the Ninth Ward
if they wanted to pay
for that victory
with the concrete from their levees
and we didn’t even need to
we could do so much at home
we could do so much everywhere
if we stopped buying victory
by maintaining obsolete weapons
and for any
homophobic redneck 2nd Amendment
flag-waving pencil-dicked motherfuckers
who need me to elaborate
on the definition of obsolete
it means do not use this gun
unless you like getting skullfucked
we could junk those guns
we could junk those warships
we could junk those missiles
we could pay for victory
with a little less theft
with a little less obsolete
but we live in Oceania
and we didn’t listen to Orwell
a comedian and a President
told us about theft and love
about the cost of our bombs
about the path to victory
but we didn’t listen to Orwell
he already knew we’d fight
with Eurasia against Eastasia
and pay the mountain men
with the funds
for free school lunches
but one September salvo
changed all that
we were always at war
nothing has changed
check your flags
we should’ve listened to Orwell
and if nothing’s ever changed
maybe we’re paying for nothing
to never come
we live in Oceania
and two dead men
are telling us the price
of a victory that may never come
not through fighting
I’d wave my peace signs
because I’m a dreamer
and I’m not the only one
but that’s not the price of victory
if we pay for the guns
instead of food and shelter
then that’s called opportunity cost
the something else
we could’ve paid for
now those two dead men
are not economists
so maybe
they could just say it plain
they could tell us that
our broken schools
and drowned levees
the children lost
to gang violence
the newborn and elderly
aching for their pain medication
they are the price of victory
so when another dead man
sends me one single thought
one sole idea
written in red
on every beachhead
from Australia to Tokyo
that there is no substitute for victory
there is not a lot
I can say to that
nothing that two dead men
have to say
about stealing from the hungry
and exploring together
no peace sign I can wave
beats the simple claim
that
there is no substitute for victory
gutshot puppy
This one's random -
I felt like making up a explanation of loss to tie together all my tattoos; I had the first section written for something else; and many other pieces were chunks of other poems that didn't work. I kind of like how I made all of this fit together, though.
gutshot puppy
I know they say
to love like you’ve never been hurt
but I’m a moth drawn to flame
broken burnt and I’d say
I’m not the same
but it feels like everything I know of it
and believe I can tell you how it goes
I’ve got etched in my skin; my experience shows
you should know
my tattoos are like chosen scars
a stitched record of where I’ve run so far
the stuff I want to remember
and a pile I need to forget
even with the ink, I’ll lose ‘em
I’m keeping faith it just hasn’t happened yet
check it
picture a gutshot puppy
Cupid shot my belief with a double-barrel
so I don’t know what to make
of love
because I hear her climax in every album
I ever felt her shake to
and my mind feeds my stomach memories
until I sit with a belly full of buckshot
these pellets are agony
made of Spanish sun-dappled patios
and crisp blueberry beer
on chilly Connecticut porches
of peanut butter milkshakes
and frantic backseat sex
outside the auto parts store
of chicken wings and chickenhead
flying through the valley
of theatrical make-up and tangled lovers
that never flew as straight
as the crow flies
of a light that connected eyes
and burnt the air between
with the raw belonging of each other’s arms
of snuggled stoned teddy bears
with pounds of icing
and fresh deep dish delivery
of having it all and throwing it away
of having it all and being thrown away
again and again
is it better to have loved and lost
then never to have loved at all
then why do we say
ignorance is bliss
now I know what I miss
what I let slip away
and I also wonder
if any of my loves were real
if they matter
when you can leap and fall
knowing someone will pick up the pieces
does it really excite?
can I really care
when I know the steps to a relationship
to compromise and passion
can I really care if that’s all love is?
repeatable
reproducible
reproductive if you fuck (it up)
I etched my arm
with aspirations of flight
because I wanted freedom
from the burden of my crushed pride
but I lacked the strength
to jump from the ledge
so I just fell and crashed
into a curly haired New Yorker
again and again and again
now I can’t decide
if it’s still hate fucking
when the person you despise
is yourself
but this is one mistake
I love to make far too often
and she helps stop the hole
these words spill out of
they wrap around my arm
like the sheet of gray rain
that drowned out the subway tunnels
and soaked my pillow with salty tears
as I lay there waiting and wasting
until New York lips parted the clouds
turning the words from a lie
to a half-truth
I can see
I believe
It’s all up to me
half true only partly because
my arm bleeds roses
for six women I didn’t protect enough
who were almost torn apart
by a love that burned slow
like gonorrhea and cancer
I can tell you it’s the time that we kill
that keeps us alive
but I’ve watched love
go from eight inches deep
to six feet under
we would kill each other
three times a day
and kill the day in between
but I must be an assassin
I’m so adept at delivering the coup de grace
to all the time we spent together
together we swore
that if you breathe what we do
and bleed in red too
then I won’t consume you
we lived and learned
but neither of us won
I know I lost
joined fists raised at a rally
and defiant banners
Bonnie and Clyde against the world.
For all the resolve I had and we shared
I consumed you
red blood and vibrant lungs all
and like yesterday’s food
turned us to shit
it’s so good to burn
but fire consumes its fuel
and this flaming moth
with a buckshot belly
prays that everytime something ends
it brings the beginning of something else
you know every time the sun sets
it’s going to rise again
but I’m sick of looking for the next one
I’m sick of the drinks I drink
in between sipping someone who matters
and still not finding my strawberry milkshake
I’m sick of thinking it’s a cycle in the first place
sick of ending up last when I put you first
life isn’t a race anyway, it’s a ride
so throw your hands up
and let the g-forces pull your screams
into a rictus of delicious deviance
the end is only a few feet behind the beginning
just hop back on and go again
even if you didn’t like the ride
but girl, fucking listen
I’m a teddy bear
I’m hairy and fuzzy and scratchy and cuddly
let me put my arms around you
let me hold you to me
and let me be the one you squeeze while you sleep
let be the one you curse at
and throw against the wall
when you can’t find your keys
let me the one
you leave on the floor forgotten
just let me the one
if only for a time
I’m so good at killing it
it’s all we’ve got, and it’s running out
so I’m burning my fuse to midnight
broken slippers and rotten pumpkins
when I let another peter pumpkin eater
scavenge the pieces of your fruit
but in the meantime
bring those predator eyes to bear on this bear
and let me know I’m home
I’m a wolf, I can run alone
I can take it
I can walk these lonely miles
but I want to run them with you
I want to bite you
I want to break you
like a tiger ready to pounce
and leave some marks
in your back
ever watch a cat
writhe and arch its back?
seen it take its time and enjoy its meal
before it kills it?
then you’ve got an idea
of what I can do for you
imagine the power in a snow leopard
I could save all that for you
because I’ve barely got a skeleton hand grip
on the steering wheel of my life
you can only move as fast
as who’s in front of you
so face me
and let me take you
from zero to finished
as fast as your engine can handle
maybe you can love like you’ve never been hurt
but I can love you until it hurts
and I think that maybe
you can only love if you’ve been hurt
you already know that this ticking time bomb
roller coaster ride
has a circular track
so you remember to ride it
until you get whiplash
love’s a good hurt at the best of times
and a magnificent car crash
when it’s even better
I know
I’ve lit cigarettes for after
while I lay on the bridges I’d burned
I’m a puppy, a wolf, a tiger
I’m a teddy bear
I know we can say goodbye
as soon as we say hello
that the last straw weighs less
than the first brick in the wall
but you should still
stop and say hello
if you’ve ever seen a dog drinking water
you already know
this puppy gives good bye
I felt like making up a explanation of loss to tie together all my tattoos; I had the first section written for something else; and many other pieces were chunks of other poems that didn't work. I kind of like how I made all of this fit together, though.
gutshot puppy
I know they say
to love like you’ve never been hurt
but I’m a moth drawn to flame
broken burnt and I’d say
I’m not the same
but it feels like everything I know of it
and believe I can tell you how it goes
I’ve got etched in my skin; my experience shows
you should know
my tattoos are like chosen scars
a stitched record of where I’ve run so far
the stuff I want to remember
and a pile I need to forget
even with the ink, I’ll lose ‘em
I’m keeping faith it just hasn’t happened yet
check it
picture a gutshot puppy
Cupid shot my belief with a double-barrel
so I don’t know what to make
of love
because I hear her climax in every album
I ever felt her shake to
and my mind feeds my stomach memories
until I sit with a belly full of buckshot
these pellets are agony
made of Spanish sun-dappled patios
and crisp blueberry beer
on chilly Connecticut porches
of peanut butter milkshakes
and frantic backseat sex
outside the auto parts store
of chicken wings and chickenhead
flying through the valley
of theatrical make-up and tangled lovers
that never flew as straight
as the crow flies
of a light that connected eyes
and burnt the air between
with the raw belonging of each other’s arms
of snuggled stoned teddy bears
with pounds of icing
and fresh deep dish delivery
of having it all and throwing it away
of having it all and being thrown away
again and again
is it better to have loved and lost
then never to have loved at all
then why do we say
ignorance is bliss
now I know what I miss
what I let slip away
and I also wonder
if any of my loves were real
if they matter
when you can leap and fall
knowing someone will pick up the pieces
does it really excite?
can I really care
when I know the steps to a relationship
to compromise and passion
can I really care if that’s all love is?
repeatable
reproducible
reproductive if you fuck (it up)
I etched my arm
with aspirations of flight
because I wanted freedom
from the burden of my crushed pride
but I lacked the strength
to jump from the ledge
so I just fell and crashed
into a curly haired New Yorker
again and again and again
now I can’t decide
if it’s still hate fucking
when the person you despise
is yourself
but this is one mistake
I love to make far too often
and she helps stop the hole
these words spill out of
they wrap around my arm
like the sheet of gray rain
that drowned out the subway tunnels
and soaked my pillow with salty tears
as I lay there waiting and wasting
until New York lips parted the clouds
turning the words from a lie
to a half-truth
I can see
I believe
It’s all up to me
half true only partly because
my arm bleeds roses
for six women I didn’t protect enough
who were almost torn apart
by a love that burned slow
like gonorrhea and cancer
I can tell you it’s the time that we kill
that keeps us alive
but I’ve watched love
go from eight inches deep
to six feet under
we would kill each other
three times a day
and kill the day in between
but I must be an assassin
I’m so adept at delivering the coup de grace
to all the time we spent together
together we swore
that if you breathe what we do
and bleed in red too
then I won’t consume you
we lived and learned
but neither of us won
I know I lost
joined fists raised at a rally
and defiant banners
Bonnie and Clyde against the world.
For all the resolve I had and we shared
I consumed you
red blood and vibrant lungs all
and like yesterday’s food
turned us to shit
it’s so good to burn
but fire consumes its fuel
and this flaming moth
with a buckshot belly
prays that everytime something ends
it brings the beginning of something else
you know every time the sun sets
it’s going to rise again
but I’m sick of looking for the next one
I’m sick of the drinks I drink
in between sipping someone who matters
and still not finding my strawberry milkshake
I’m sick of thinking it’s a cycle in the first place
sick of ending up last when I put you first
life isn’t a race anyway, it’s a ride
so throw your hands up
and let the g-forces pull your screams
into a rictus of delicious deviance
the end is only a few feet behind the beginning
just hop back on and go again
even if you didn’t like the ride
but girl, fucking listen
I’m a teddy bear
I’m hairy and fuzzy and scratchy and cuddly
let me put my arms around you
let me hold you to me
and let me be the one you squeeze while you sleep
let be the one you curse at
and throw against the wall
when you can’t find your keys
let me the one
you leave on the floor forgotten
just let me the one
if only for a time
I’m so good at killing it
it’s all we’ve got, and it’s running out
so I’m burning my fuse to midnight
broken slippers and rotten pumpkins
when I let another peter pumpkin eater
scavenge the pieces of your fruit
but in the meantime
bring those predator eyes to bear on this bear
and let me know I’m home
I’m a wolf, I can run alone
I can take it
I can walk these lonely miles
but I want to run them with you
I want to bite you
I want to break you
like a tiger ready to pounce
and leave some marks
in your back
ever watch a cat
writhe and arch its back?
seen it take its time and enjoy its meal
before it kills it?
then you’ve got an idea
of what I can do for you
imagine the power in a snow leopard
I could save all that for you
because I’ve barely got a skeleton hand grip
on the steering wheel of my life
you can only move as fast
as who’s in front of you
so face me
and let me take you
from zero to finished
as fast as your engine can handle
maybe you can love like you’ve never been hurt
but I can love you until it hurts
and I think that maybe
you can only love if you’ve been hurt
you already know that this ticking time bomb
roller coaster ride
has a circular track
so you remember to ride it
until you get whiplash
love’s a good hurt at the best of times
and a magnificent car crash
when it’s even better
I know
I’ve lit cigarettes for after
while I lay on the bridges I’d burned
I’m a puppy, a wolf, a tiger
I’m a teddy bear
I know we can say goodbye
as soon as we say hello
that the last straw weighs less
than the first brick in the wall
but you should still
stop and say hello
if you’ve ever seen a dog drinking water
you already know
this puppy gives good bye
Loyalty Sworn
I don't even really have a title for this one. It's the first "happy" one I've written, that wasn't for a specific girl, or any situation like that. I usually write angry, or sad - I feel most people do - and so I tried my hand at this shindig.
I mentioned a few months ago how Thrice was blowing my mind with their new album, lyrically and musically; one song called "The Weight" is perhaps one of the best love songs I've ever heard, heavy or not. It's simply epic; here's the lyrics:
http://www.plyrics.com/lyrics/thrice/theweight.html
One of the couplets is:
"And come what may, I won’t abandon you or leave you behind,
Because love is a loyalty sworn, not a burning for a moment."
This is what came out of that:
if love is a loyalty sworn not a burden
why do we speak of it as a ball and chain
the bond to bind the bond
the studded mace at the end of hard chain links
to shatter the shield of your resolve
but I refuse to believe in burdens
if love is a loyalty sworn
and not a burden borne
I want to kneel at your feet
and kiss my oath on your toes
I think of all the cigarettes and patient sex
we could have had on our porch
driving the sun below the line of the sky
tracing my fingers across your thighs
until it melts on the horizon
like the egg yolks leaking
from the over-easy breakfast
I brought you in bed
I want to peel your mind
like an onion
and find every layer inside
so I can tremble at your thoughts
like a leaf caught in the Santa Ana wind
I want to burn
I want my skin to crawl
as I walk a steaming tunnel of fire
caught in the oven of reunion
to end up in your arms
our chests pressed together
our heads pressed together
I want to learn every one of your smiles
1
when you’re surprised and delighted
your eyes shine like headlamps
through San Fran fog
beckoning me home
2
when you’re nervous
put the blindfold on
and take my hand
we’re going out
it’s a surprise
and I love it because
you’re so cute when you bite your lip
3
when you take what’s yours
when you own it
assume it
dominate it
claim it
climb on top and hold it
4
when you’re oh so close
and I know your coming
I want your legs choking
my ears while I work
I want to rear back and see it
just on the corners of your lips
with eyes closed
until just before the end
5
when you’re sleeping
curled in a ball
the way you fit perfectly in my arms
and I can’t help
but kiss your nose
6
when you’re pissed
and don’t you to show it
way too much teeth
you’re trying to hard to fake it
7
when you’re not really pissed
but you’re trying to pretend
and failing completely
I can tell
and I’m going to keep tickling you
8
when you’re proud
yeah you did it
they loved your show
I want to learn every inch of you
and your thoughts
I want to learn
how your hair falls
across your naked breasts
the way you look when you come
I want to eat massive quantities of nutmeg
and have French vanilla buttercream frosting sex
with cinnamon swirl pancakes for dessert
lying in bed
how you like your eggs and your coffee
when you finally awake
the way sweat runs down your back
our favorite way to cuddle
I want to round trip with you
to cities where they speak funny
to forests where we can’t set up our tent
to beaches where we lose our clothes
and run through the water anyway
I want to watch your goldenrod feet
drum sunlight tattoos
on the giving ground
barefoot and free
I want to pipe dream restaurants
and build communal houses
and push them all past disbelief
into reality
with you laughing by my side
I want to take one way trips with you
to everywhere we will be
and always move ahead
through anything
through everything
I want to roadtrip
through this life with you
choking on your farts
even with the windows down
I want to trip while tripping
across the sawdust plains
and living wood forests of the West
to stroll vegetable television
through the peach groves in Sicily
through the hills and the valleys
the bills and the new house we build
the mid life restaurant
the mistakes
the birthdays and holidays
to get home to the couch
I swear those were mine
and Dominoes and Coldstone
do not mix
like we do
tangled and tickled
snuggled and satisfied
I want to wash your hair
and run the soap down the curves of your back
and the freckles on your shoulder blade
I want to spin you
put you through some moves
in the middle of the crowd
for no reason at all
except we’ve got legs
and love
and each other
and the thing is
I haven’t found you yet
I’ve been looking
but you’re so damned hard to find
and I hope
that you’re looking too
because I want to meet soon
life’s waiting
let’s start the car
grab the wheel
and drive
find me
and take my hand
I swear my love
I swear my loyalty
I swear
I’m yours
I mentioned a few months ago how Thrice was blowing my mind with their new album, lyrically and musically; one song called "The Weight" is perhaps one of the best love songs I've ever heard, heavy or not. It's simply epic; here's the lyrics:
http://www.plyrics.com/lyrics/thrice/theweight.html
One of the couplets is:
"And come what may, I won’t abandon you or leave you behind,
Because love is a loyalty sworn, not a burning for a moment."
This is what came out of that:
if love is a loyalty sworn not a burden
why do we speak of it as a ball and chain
the bond to bind the bond
the studded mace at the end of hard chain links
to shatter the shield of your resolve
but I refuse to believe in burdens
if love is a loyalty sworn
and not a burden borne
I want to kneel at your feet
and kiss my oath on your toes
I think of all the cigarettes and patient sex
we could have had on our porch
driving the sun below the line of the sky
tracing my fingers across your thighs
until it melts on the horizon
like the egg yolks leaking
from the over-easy breakfast
I brought you in bed
I want to peel your mind
like an onion
and find every layer inside
so I can tremble at your thoughts
like a leaf caught in the Santa Ana wind
I want to burn
I want my skin to crawl
as I walk a steaming tunnel of fire
caught in the oven of reunion
to end up in your arms
our chests pressed together
our heads pressed together
I want to learn every one of your smiles
1
when you’re surprised and delighted
your eyes shine like headlamps
through San Fran fog
beckoning me home
2
when you’re nervous
put the blindfold on
and take my hand
we’re going out
it’s a surprise
and I love it because
you’re so cute when you bite your lip
3
when you take what’s yours
when you own it
assume it
dominate it
claim it
climb on top and hold it
4
when you’re oh so close
and I know your coming
I want your legs choking
my ears while I work
I want to rear back and see it
just on the corners of your lips
with eyes closed
until just before the end
5
when you’re sleeping
curled in a ball
the way you fit perfectly in my arms
and I can’t help
but kiss your nose
6
when you’re pissed
and don’t you to show it
way too much teeth
you’re trying to hard to fake it
7
when you’re not really pissed
but you’re trying to pretend
and failing completely
I can tell
and I’m going to keep tickling you
8
when you’re proud
yeah you did it
they loved your show
I want to learn every inch of you
and your thoughts
I want to learn
how your hair falls
across your naked breasts
the way you look when you come
I want to eat massive quantities of nutmeg
and have French vanilla buttercream frosting sex
with cinnamon swirl pancakes for dessert
lying in bed
how you like your eggs and your coffee
when you finally awake
the way sweat runs down your back
our favorite way to cuddle
I want to round trip with you
to cities where they speak funny
to forests where we can’t set up our tent
to beaches where we lose our clothes
and run through the water anyway
I want to watch your goldenrod feet
drum sunlight tattoos
on the giving ground
barefoot and free
I want to pipe dream restaurants
and build communal houses
and push them all past disbelief
into reality
with you laughing by my side
I want to take one way trips with you
to everywhere we will be
and always move ahead
through anything
through everything
I want to roadtrip
through this life with you
choking on your farts
even with the windows down
I want to trip while tripping
across the sawdust plains
and living wood forests of the West
to stroll vegetable television
through the peach groves in Sicily
through the hills and the valleys
the bills and the new house we build
the mid life restaurant
the mistakes
the birthdays and holidays
to get home to the couch
I swear those were mine
and Dominoes and Coldstone
do not mix
like we do
tangled and tickled
snuggled and satisfied
I want to wash your hair
and run the soap down the curves of your back
and the freckles on your shoulder blade
I want to spin you
put you through some moves
in the middle of the crowd
for no reason at all
except we’ve got legs
and love
and each other
and the thing is
I haven’t found you yet
I’ve been looking
but you’re so damned hard to find
and I hope
that you’re looking too
because I want to meet soon
life’s waiting
let’s start the car
grab the wheel
and drive
find me
and take my hand
I swear my love
I swear my loyalty
I swear
I’m yours
My Students
This is a poem by a 2nd year TFA-er at my school; it's not one of mine.
My Students
Yes, he is one of mine
And that one too
The one who is always cussing at you
The runaway
The punk
The troublemaker
The thug
You have the nerve to tell me you think he is on drugs
Yes, my students are assholes and dicks
But you once called him a son of a bitch
They frustrate, they disrupt, the drive you up walls
They are the reason your classroom management is balls
But he is one of mine
It’s my job to love him
To hold him, to praise him and to hug him
Because no one else puts up with his shit
But he’s not an asshole to me so I don’t mind a bit
It’s just a shame that you can’t get him to learn
Because he’s got a brain inside there, and a heart
It’s only because his mom died, it was torn apart
And it was hard for him to understand
Why his dad was in jail and not holding his hand
He acts out to get attention
There are like 12 other siblings in his grandmother’s basement
Oh yes, he’s mine and look at me, I am so “patient”
Just cuz I have the common sense not to drive this kid apeshit
Don’t get pissed off when I say “He’s fine.”
As if that would take intervention from the divine
You are scared to have him in your class, kids may get hurt
I’m sorry, I thought YOU were the adult
Try handling his life and you may find
That it’s not so bad when he talks out of line
Maybe I have a soft spot for emotionally disabled
But nothing in this kids life has ever been stable
So we eat lunch and then we talk
He calms down and smiles when we take a walk
This kid is sweet!
Fuck you for saying he’ll wind up on the street
So ya, he is one of mine
And I’ll take him in
Because as soon as he enters YOUR classroom the shit-show begins
But I think he is the shit
When he puts on a show
And raps for me
A rhyme that he wrote
Just cuz he’s mine
Doesn’t mean he’s not yours too
And maybe if your classroom
WASN’T a zoo
You could see how much this kid rocks
Sporting a pair of mismatching socks
He melts my heart when he brings me flowers
And I swear his smile has super powers
He’s a champ
He’s a doll
He’s my fucking hero
For still trying at life as he receives zero
Yup, he’s one of mine
And I’ll take him.
My Students
Yes, he is one of mine
And that one too
The one who is always cussing at you
The runaway
The punk
The troublemaker
The thug
You have the nerve to tell me you think he is on drugs
Yes, my students are assholes and dicks
But you once called him a son of a bitch
They frustrate, they disrupt, the drive you up walls
They are the reason your classroom management is balls
But he is one of mine
It’s my job to love him
To hold him, to praise him and to hug him
Because no one else puts up with his shit
But he’s not an asshole to me so I don’t mind a bit
It’s just a shame that you can’t get him to learn
Because he’s got a brain inside there, and a heart
It’s only because his mom died, it was torn apart
And it was hard for him to understand
Why his dad was in jail and not holding his hand
He acts out to get attention
There are like 12 other siblings in his grandmother’s basement
Oh yes, he’s mine and look at me, I am so “patient”
Just cuz I have the common sense not to drive this kid apeshit
Don’t get pissed off when I say “He’s fine.”
As if that would take intervention from the divine
You are scared to have him in your class, kids may get hurt
I’m sorry, I thought YOU were the adult
Try handling his life and you may find
That it’s not so bad when he talks out of line
Maybe I have a soft spot for emotionally disabled
But nothing in this kids life has ever been stable
So we eat lunch and then we talk
He calms down and smiles when we take a walk
This kid is sweet!
Fuck you for saying he’ll wind up on the street
So ya, he is one of mine
And I’ll take him in
Because as soon as he enters YOUR classroom the shit-show begins
But I think he is the shit
When he puts on a show
And raps for me
A rhyme that he wrote
Just cuz he’s mine
Doesn’t mean he’s not yours too
And maybe if your classroom
WASN’T a zoo
You could see how much this kid rocks
Sporting a pair of mismatching socks
He melts my heart when he brings me flowers
And I swear his smile has super powers
He’s a champ
He’s a doll
He’s my fucking hero
For still trying at life as he receives zero
Yup, he’s one of mine
And I’ll take him.
AIMS
The kids are in their third day of AIMS testing; they get crazy focused. It's really interesting to see how amped the get about something like this, even those who don't give a fuck about school 99% of the time.
In my homeroom, I saw a girl come in with a book, a pencil, dress code-appropriate clothing, and a smile I rarely see - one that says she's here to try, rather than throw things. I raised an eyebrow, and she just said simply "Oh, no, I don't fuck around with AIMS. I come to work for this test," took her seat, and asked for a pencil.
Also, I have now done with them several college theater warm-ups before each section. They love shaking out their limbs and counting down by halves; they're interested in the "It feels so good just like I knew it would," but are having trouble with the rhythm (having me teach it probably doesn't help), but I caught them working on it at lunch; they like grabbing hands and squeezing a pulse around a group, and have a blast trying to count communally.
I stay with my homeroom all day, but I also see some of the other kids going to and from lunch - I was really happy, because they ran up to me to tell me "Mr.BubinMr.BubinImadeamegabubblemapandIevenT-chartedmyessay (pause to breathe) aren't you proud of me?"
That was pretty sweet.
My netbook crashed last week; apparently the motherboard melted. I don't fucking know. It means I have no computer for a few weeks, which is obnoxious, because progress reports are due soon, and my plans to start cranking out two or three pieces of erotica a week just got derailed.
The site launches in June, apparently; I wanted to have a good dozen stories up there before it gets underway.
On a vaguely related topic, I am a very productive motherfucker, even under the influence. I've been shitting out poems, and poem concepts, at a crazy rate. Even better, though, to tie it all back to the AIMS, three other teachers today showed me poems they'd written, that they finally wanted to share. One was about her kids; two were about their lives. It made me really happy. I'm going to post 'em, I think, and give 'em some credit.
In my homeroom, I saw a girl come in with a book, a pencil, dress code-appropriate clothing, and a smile I rarely see - one that says she's here to try, rather than throw things. I raised an eyebrow, and she just said simply "Oh, no, I don't fuck around with AIMS. I come to work for this test," took her seat, and asked for a pencil.
Also, I have now done with them several college theater warm-ups before each section. They love shaking out their limbs and counting down by halves; they're interested in the "It feels so good just like I knew it would," but are having trouble with the rhythm (having me teach it probably doesn't help), but I caught them working on it at lunch; they like grabbing hands and squeezing a pulse around a group, and have a blast trying to count communally.
I stay with my homeroom all day, but I also see some of the other kids going to and from lunch - I was really happy, because they ran up to me to tell me "Mr.BubinMr.BubinImadeamegabubblemapandIevenT-chartedmyessay (pause to breathe) aren't you proud of me?"
That was pretty sweet.
My netbook crashed last week; apparently the motherboard melted. I don't fucking know. It means I have no computer for a few weeks, which is obnoxious, because progress reports are due soon, and my plans to start cranking out two or three pieces of erotica a week just got derailed.
The site launches in June, apparently; I wanted to have a good dozen stories up there before it gets underway.
On a vaguely related topic, I am a very productive motherfucker, even under the influence. I've been shitting out poems, and poem concepts, at a crazy rate. Even better, though, to tie it all back to the AIMS, three other teachers today showed me poems they'd written, that they finally wanted to share. One was about her kids; two were about their lives. It made me really happy. I'm going to post 'em, I think, and give 'em some credit.
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