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Suffering Jets, Bowling Litionists, and Peace Knicks, a fable

illustration suffering jets bowling litionists peace knicks

Suffering Jets, Bowling Litionists, and Peace Knicks, a fable

My mom’s always trying to teach me History.  She says it’s important for us kids to know all the bad stuff that happened in the olden days so we won’t be as stupid as all those olden people were.  My mom seems really mad at those olden people.  She says human beings could have lived in a “paradise-on-earth” if it wasn’t for a whole bunch of bad ideas they thought up and then were stupid enough to get stuck on.  Just as if they were GOOD ideas!  My mom thinks good ideas are real important.  I’m not so sure because I can’t always tell the difference between one of her “good” ideas and one of the olden people’s “bad” ideas, but I’d never tell her that because if I did I think she’d go nutsy-futsy just like Nadine Houck’s dad did, and then I’d be pretty much alone except for that mean bunch of kids living on that hill up from the lake.  They’re not mean so much as they are just pissed because nobody’s really around to care for them and make them read their schoolbooks every morning.

Anyway, my mom’s always trying to teach me History, and so I try to learn it.  Like today, she got started on the “god-damned East-West mutual suicide pact.”  She says that back when there were lots of olden people, (she says there were BILLIONS, but that nutso-futso and I don’t believe her), everybody actually KNEW what would happen if there was “an all-scale nuclear confrontation.”  Like, they made TV shows and movies about it, and people wrote all kinds of books and stuff, and they had big “world conferences” and all, and lots of people even made stuff for people to buy so that when the “all-scale nuclear confrontation” came, they’d have water to drink and canned peas and tuna fish and EVERYTHING.

And like people even built bomb shelters in their yards and stuff.  My mom says this is “evidence of the world-group insanity” of the early twenty-hundreds and that I should mark it WELL in my soul.  So anyways, all the olden people actually KNEW what could happen and all.  Which is real hard for me to believe sometimes. Like if my Mom and me actually KNEW that the roof of our house was going to fall in, and so we bought big steel umbrellas and helmets and stuff, and kept living right in the SAME actual house but all the time acting real worried about the roof caving in and talking like MAD about how to prevent it and all, but really not doing anything to brace the ceiling.  And EVEN having some guy show us pictures of what our blood would look like spread all over the floor.  But then we’d just buy bigger steel umbrellas and harder helmets but we STILL wouldn’t leave the house.  Damn, isn’t it hard to believe that those dumb olden people could actually ACT like that?

So anyway, the whole of Earth really, really KNEW that they were in a big pile of trouble.  But people did ALL sorts of stuff to “distract their lunatic sensibilities,” my mom says, and they’d do stuff like jump out of big airplanes to feel what it was like while all the time they just kept stocking up on the god-damned steel umbrellas and helmets.

My mom said that one time in the middle of the twentieth century and towards the 70’s some olden people actually and truly came to their senses and try to yell loud at all the “sleeping fools,” my mom says.  She says that she read all about them in college and always wondered why they quit yelling.  She says that groups of good people would get together all down in history, but that as soon as they had “achieved their one objective goal,” they would trickle down and eventually dry up.  She talks about the Suffering Jets and the Bowling Litionists and the New York Peace Knicks and that they all lost their momentum in the end.

Anyway, my mom says that HER theory of what in HELL happened to people is they had plenty of guilt, but no feeling of responsibility to go along with it.  Like they felt bad about their “sins of omission” and all, and they hung their heads about it, but what it REALLY was, was just “crocodile tears.”  Like they would say, “Gee, I feel SO guilty, but gee, if I felt guilty about every bad thing in the world I wouldn’t be able to SLEEP at night and my face would break out and I wouldn’t be having FUN and stuff.”  Like they had a mental maturity age “of about three,” my mom says.

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The Poetry Teacher Feeds Me a Raisin, a poem

illustration the poetry teacher feeds me a raisin

The Poetry Teacher Feeds Me a Raisin

It feels like communion
She’s like a priestess
I’m sucking
on a round sweet gob
of sunlight
And I see her buying the raisins,
handing money
to the pale register girl
Her hands are strong
like my mother’s
She’s feeding me,
I’ve never had a teacher
feed me and earlier I wanted
to shrink down and crawl
into her pocket, her purse,
into the braided locks of her hair,
holding her fast
as if life depended on it,
and of course it does.
I have been touched
by the light and cannot
go back except
to make things sweet
like this fruit.

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New Poem, a poem (for everyone i love — you know who you are)

leslie gaines CrazyViewIMG_0542

New Poem

Dearest, dearest God, my old teacher, my new teacher,
my classmate, my expedition, my mountain, my valley,

my sea, my river, my lake, my cloud, my tree, my rock,
my butterfly, my sweet love: Your new minister is a dear,

from New Orleans, young and trembling and with a pretty,
shy wife and two darling baby girls. Picture of earnestness

and kindness. Admirable. I felt my soul blossoming today,
I was moved, shaken, made warm and soft and open

by the children’s beauty. And part of all that was You
inside me. So much love for You, it hurts my damn chest.

I confessed my sins today and was absolved. Do I believe?
Well, partly. Enough that I don’t feel like a hypocrite.

Perhaps I should. I don’t know. I have no answers and
hardly any coherent questions. Mostly I am struck dumb

by all of this, all of this happening in my body and my mind
and my heart and my soul. It is profound. It is an opportunity.

I will not squander this precious gift, rest assured.
Simple things have become all the more profound and

complex things all the more understandable. Just heard
a strange noise coming from my daughter’s bathroom.

Both cats were on the counter with the goldfish bowl
up to their little catty elbows in same. Dripping wet,

they looked at me guiltily. I hissed, “Get your paws
out of there, ladies!” They fled, in haste and apprehension.

I did not follow to administer further lectures.
They’re cats, after all. Cats will fish, given the chance.

And absent lovers will pine. And awakened souls
will soar heavenward. Doesn’t life contain much

logically predictable inevitability which is nonetheless,
each time it presents itself, a mystery and a revelation?

I have gone mad with gratitude. Every thing
existing seems a gift. An opportunity. Priceless.

Even if I never get to live in Your arms again, know this:
I am Yours, forever. It is the first time I have felt this way

toward someone not my own child. I cannot imagine
the set of facts that would alter my feelings for You.

While watching Your last meteor shower, I thought of all our
souls — how we are all like meteors, our pinpoint of brilliance,

the variability of our paths — some meteors appear bright
but have no echoing trail — others are dimmer but leave

a long streak of fire in their wake — some travel in twos
or threes, others singly. I am dancing on the razor’s edge

between gratitude for this passion existing at all, and greed
for more of it, more of it, always more of it. No patience.

No patience with Your plan — wanting more knowledge,
even knowing how Cassandra received foreknowledge and

killed herself in the end, because it was too much for her.
So glad I don’t know but panicked that I don’t know

all at the same time. What Baby said: the sky
was gray and overcast, yet there was no rain,

borderline gloomy but also very pleasing in a way —
she said, “It’s a beautiful day today.” I agreed.

The sun was behind a layer of gray, you could still tell
it was there, you could see the disc behind the gray,

it had a translucent light, and though you couldn’t see,
exactly, the brightness, you knew it was there. Like You.

Today was a miracle, You were there with me
everywhere I went, except I couldn’t see You.

And neither could anyone else. I stood on the beach
between the surf and the dunes and listened to the waves

roar their white noise of love. There I met a cockatoo
named Pumpkin, she was gorgeous snowy white

with orange eyes, and I lulled her to sleep. “Pretty girl,”
I said to her, stroking her sweet feathers. “Pretty girl.”

She cocked her head and trilled at me. I think
her owner was surprised when she didn’t want to go

back to his arm from mine. Later, I bought a nightgown
printed with leaves, that makes me feel like a tree nymph.

I wish I could wear it for You. What I’ve learned:
the correct question is not, after all, could I/would I

kill Hitler. The question is, could I/would I love Hitler?
Thank You, God, my tutor, my scholar, my journey,

my height, my hollow, my ocean, my stream, my shore, my billow,
my standing timber, my paving stone, my mortar, my luscious beloved.

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