DAY TWO
So, I come from a long line of
bartenders,
sweat-breakers,
broken backs from digging ditches,
and a handful of teachers.
Mom taught math,
Sis’ teaches English,
and Dad
told us stories.
Now, all of this spins around in my mind
and I see it spinning faster and faster
in reflection in the eyes of the student who’s face
is only inches from mine
as he says,
“What are you gonna do about it if I don’t”
all puffer fish pointy chested
as the rest of the high school class waits.
Waits
as the ink
beneath my long sleeves,
button up, and slacks
begin to burn.
Waits
as my first mosh-pit branded brain
begins to boil.
Waits as I keep back the gasoline bile
and get all choked up on
the hand-grenade pins and needles
that have been planted in my throat
and grown a drum set in my jawbone
I play
in time
with the swaying picket signs.
But today,
today I muted it.
Honestly,
I’m proud of this kid.
I want to tell him this.I want to tell him I’m glad.
I’m glad that after thirteen years of learning,
the one thing he has not picked up on
is to blindly follow authority.
I want to tell him this.
I want to tell him I’m sorry.
I’m sorry you’re stuck in a broken system
where men in designer suits
who have never even seen a classroom
keep cutting art out of the heart of education
because you can’t properly or profitably
express yourself well enough
through a color by letters
number two pencil
piss poor pointillist painting
like A, B, C, or D all of the above
is being held above all else.
I wanna tell him all of this.
I wanna tell him I’m sorry,
but it just comes out as
“Sit down, kid.”
Sit down.
Save your strength.
Hold on to that crumpled paper, homemade bomb heart
that keeps blasting shards of chicken scratch shrapnel
through your blood stream.
Hold on to it
like sand bags for a real rainy day.
I know it hurts right now for you
because it still does for me too,
but there’s a difference between
picking a fight and picking your fights.
This one’s not worth it.
I’m temporary, man.
I’m gone from your life
by the end of this period.
Then I’m off to who knows where
to substitute
all of their authority
and none of the time.
All of their authority
and none of the mutual respect.
All of their authority
and none of the real chances
to make you listen,
so listen now,
“Sit down.”
A cop’s not gonna be so polite, kid.
You’ll get nothing less than a slap on the jaw
with a night stick.
“Sit down.”
There’s something to be said for political captives,
but there’s not a whole lotta valor in a detention slip.
“Sit down.”
Sit down
and stand up
for something worth it.
Stand up
and stand strong for something worth it.
But for now,
“Sit down.”
I’m sorry.
I’m tired.
I spent all of yesterday
in a gang graffiti soaked, in-school suspension classroom
breaking up fights,
and squared off with a seventh grade girl
with more balls than either of us would know what to do with
and a blade in her backpack for the walk home.
“Sit down.”
This tough guy act aint gonna work on me.
For christsake you’re wearing 3D glasses with the lenses popped out right now.
How am I supposed to take you seriously?
But seriously,
you might not get it now
and you probably think
I’m just another asshole with a name tag
telling you what to do,
but I swear
from the bottom of the bricks and spray paint
in my belly
that when I’m saying “Sit down”
I’m praying you learn what it means to
stand up.
baratheonpilled
janainaart
blakekathryn
yousharknotpass
