Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Hallways and doorframes and lunchrooms:
I’ve walked them for the past four years,
tracing the steps of period 1 to 8,
bell after ring after ding after done with this.
And I’ve sat in classroom seats
listening to monotone beats drum away
at my ever-opened ear, waiting for a sound
to resonate with me, to make me feel.
But I’ve also heard
the anomalous sound,
every once in a ringing bell,
when a teacher gets up in front of the class
and says something besides, Welcome
to this period’s class, kiss my ass,
be a mass and hope to pass.
And we sit there in our hard seats,
eyes open and glazed, fists clenched
as we feel beats pulse in our nerves again
as we dive through Hemingway and plunge into Freud.
We’re like young, restless children
again, anxiously awaiting our trip to fame,
to shout out loud what has been so loud
for so long, but still so unheard.
We stand up and shout, get up
on the damn table for all we care
because it’s not about the car or the hair
or the fixed idea or the ratio that bleeds,
It’s not the summed-up algorithm
that transcends our fixed-idea, fixed-thought,
but it is the open field, the blank sheet of paper, the transparent glass.