My Streets (Poem)

I wish the Andes hadn’t been silenced–

I wish the city cradling me during birth had yelled a little louder. 

I wish I had seen them take torches to the shoulder-high monte.

I saw the Andes burn,

how it heaved its ashes down crowded, ugly streets.

And wondered why those black flakes burned,

why they smeared my clothing,

And my father?

I saw him swimming,

head bowed to his Father,

flakes of white ash on his brow –

valley trees murmuring his name. 

I have always connected poetry to fire

whether my pen admitted it or not.  

I connected serenity to my city,

whether the children robbing me knew it or not –

I always heard the

humming

strumming

running

whether the crowd cared or not. 

In the winter, when the air burned my tongue,

and sun licked my eyes–

I turned to my mother,

and tumbled into her as waves upon sand.

and it was then I heard the mountains

and I craved…cradled,

words. Incessant fire.

Now for the Running: Part I (Poem)

Even before the first stone hit,

something inside my mind cracked and splintered.

I could only stare upwards at the cathedral's eyes,

fragmented by my throw,

as myriads of glass shards rained down like lethal rain.

I couldn't tell you what made me do it.

I probably couldn't even tell you where I was,

except that watching the windows shatter

was like seeing a painter's perfect picture slashed with stray paint,

and I sat sadly down on the curb.

----

The moment finally came when I rounded the corner and saw him.

Blood trickled down his eyes where he'd been cut,

and I gazed upwards, 

where dark holes had been punched in the cathedral's face.

Looking down at him,

I suddenly realized he was holding a chunk of rubble,

while passing it back and forth between palms.

My head swiveled left and right,

and saw no one. 

Crumpled newspapers and Sunday mass pamphlets rolled past,

as if I were in an old movie set. 

"I suppose there's nothing left but to sit down and join you, no?"

"Suit yourself." 

He seemed strangely lost, out of place.

His hair rose at strange angles from his face,

and pictures blanketed the skin on both arms,

while the blood on his face caked and dried.

His empty hazel eyes switched between curb and church,

the stone went thunk thunk every time it passed between hands.

"Whyd'ju do that?" I asked, pointing vaguely skyward.

"You're not real," he responded. "I remember you from last time, except you had a hammer with you then."

"Huh, I don't remember you at..." trailing off as his gaze turned on me, baleful, cold eyes silent. 

"You're the architect of these, right? Bastard. I knew you would follow me even here."

----

I hurtled myself from the curb as only dreams can teach.

I had twisted myself and thrown my chunk as heavily as I could

before I could even process his face,

folding in on itself in rage and fury.

It struck him in his chest, 

his snarling face snapping forwards as he stumbled.

"Now for the running," I mouthed to myself,

ecstatic to be slipping through alleyways in a chase for life.

Fold me in a Night of Sunshine (Poem)

I`ve been eaten by the world.

Fish feast on my ocean self,

and wolves cast about hungrily above for a remnant of my shadow,

for once it was strong and sticky,

a stitched companion glued with hazy feelings to my side.

Now free

zaftig shapes whisper in my direction

while I remain couchant amongst friends,

spreading my smile country to country,

wave to watery wave,

former ruin to a sleek concrete jungle.

Still, under a soft blanket of blue

floating lazily and weightless,

I feel sea animals nibble at me,

quietly having their fill of

my thoughts and darkest corners.

...and light as sunshine,

turquoise seaweed like eels coil around my chest

and comfort.

Escape from an ocean-wide space,

breathless watching tundras above me churn hungry wolves into cachinnating wınds.

I`ve been under these waters too long.

Even Poseidon grows weary

and prods me skyward,

needling me towards discomfort

and away from evenings at his side,

where once I soaked in a minimum of pain...

Where else to go but arid tundras,

to face those timber wolves hulking in the corners of spruce groves,

prowling around the wonderland of my mind,

awaiting my fall over the edge of the world after it's had its fill.

And so I stand,

chewed and fantod,

awaiting what? 

Has the feast ended?

Do days have an end?

A bramble of undercast questions

hidden in coral depths...

Give me simple days,

not tasting of sea brine where I have soaked for years,

watching shadow puppets carouse around the stage of my head.

Give me smooth days,

like the sinuous curve of a woman from hip to warmth.

Fold me in a night of sunshine

and I will give you what I know of love.

Chapter 12: The teacher chronicles part II

'Yo, mista Davis are those chocolate milk cows?'

Our school bus, cheddar cheese yellow and three blocks long, bounced and jolted across the Whitestone bridge on our way to another strenuous field trip. Our sixth graders, semi-belted into their seats, wavered between abject fear and awe as we made our way closer to the Queens Meadow Farm. Half of them had never been over water, most had never touched a body of water, and zero of them had been in Queens, NYC. Oh, I nearly forgot. They lived in the Bronx, a ten minute drive from Queens. Nevertheless, passing a pasture of forgotten cows, Terrell's comment about the origin of chocolate milk easily passed into the realm of unforgettable. Now normally I would never smile at these over-aged, pimply, bumbling sixth graders that could simultaneously break my heart and make me see shades of red that don't yet exist. Yet, Terrell got me by surprise, and turning to my good friend Mercedes, I instantly passed along his words of wisdom while attempting not to lose control entirely of my face and its upstart smile.

'Ummm, no Terrell, those are regular cows, which provide regular milk.'

'Yu mean the 2 percent stuff my momma buys to make me bigger?'

'That sounds about right...', turning towards Mercedes to avoid showing my upper lip pressed closely around my mouth in stifled laughter.

The teacher chronicles are jammed with memories such as these, and I'm convinced that if a dozen teachers from a dozen different schools got together and shared their stories, it would be on the bestseller list for years to come. Here are another priceless few moments.

1. A co-worker of mine called me over to her first grade classroom because her student Glymer (pronounced Glimmer: "There's a y in there mista  becuz he a boy, not no girl glimma") had just eaten a small fluorescent bulb. According to what he said, he had just wanted "a snack." Cue ambulance, frenzied assistant principal, mom saying "s'all right, he jus craaazy," and a one-way ticket to Children's Village. Yes, this place exists, and no you do not want to teach there.

2. Mariela, my little kindergarten angel, looking up at me during a math lesson where we were writing numbers with marker on white-boards, and saying, "Senor Davis, I think I just felt the lightbulb you always talk about in my brain turning on."

3. My little Alejandro in 3rd grade - For our living things unit we had been observing the egg-hatching process of chickens, which fascinated all save Alejandro. On the day we finally saw a chicken hatching, my class, normally strictly in line with classroom expectations, went berserk. Rushing over to our incubator, we all peered over the top and watched the tiny little miracle occur. I hadn't realized, in my happiness of seeing the students open-mouthed, thrilled and whispering in frantic voices to each other, that Alejandro was tugging my sleeve from behind, serious eyes turned up at me. I looked down and asked him what was wrong. "Senor Davis, si tu quieres, mi mama se puede quitar las plumas, limpiar y cocinar esas gallinas 'pa una fiesta." (Mr. Davis, my mom can clean, pluck and cook those chickens for our end of the year party if you want)

4. Teaching 4th grade, I had brought some small bones in for fossilization. A few I had purchased at a specialty shop, such as the owl bones I began showing them. It took me a few minutes to realize where some of the wing bones had gone. Raymond, my student with a one-on-one paraprofessional (for some reason she had chosen that lesson to step out), was busy cracking and sucking on them in the corner.

5. Joshua: Height - 4'11''. Weight: App 85 lbs. Occupation: Extreme Tormentor Student, highest order. Angel: Height - 5'8''. Weight: App 150 lbs. Occupation: Quiet female student prone to violent rages.
Joshua to Angel: "Yo, you maaaaaad ugly."
Angel to Joshua: "Quiet, small kid, I'll punch you."
Joshua to Angel: "Did you make that weave yourself? It's maaaaad ugly."
Angel: Calmly walking over to Joshua, picking him up about four inches off the ground and throwing him into the class door. Walking over, holding his shoulder with one hand, and punching him with the other. "I saiiid, shut. the. fuck. up."
At last, a superintendent suspension. :)

6. 4'2'' boy, skinny as a rail, big front teeth, shaved head. In the middle of an English lesson: "Yo mista, I had a dream las night that in another life I wuz a stripper named Candy Cane."

7. Big unit test. Rubin leaned over and looked at his neighbor's test.
Mr. Davis: "Rubin, that's cheating."
Rubin: "Naw Mista, I'm not cheating I'm just reading his paper."
Mr. Davis: "By definition, that's cheating Rubin."

8. Laurent walking into class: "Mr. Davis, can I bring some guns to class?"
Mr. Davis: "Ummm, absolutely not."
Laurent: "Then why did you let me bring these?" (Pointing at his skinny 6th grade arms)

9. Teaching 6th grade literacy one day...Under my breath.."What the??" (dog barking sounds coming from somewhere in the room) Glancing under one of the tables. "Luis, why are barking like a dog and under your table?"
Luis: "I'm practicing being a dog. See, ruff! ruff!"
---
On the second day of teaching 6th grade literacy, I began lining up my class outside in the hallway in order to go to lunch. Lines, or order in general, were very foreign things for my students, yet that day we filed out, 33 strong, and stood in line for a brief moment until I asked out loud to no one in particular, "Where's Arius?"
"Ooooh, I'll go get him Mr. Davis!!!" shrieked Chadia, a short, Jamaican version of a cherry bomb firework. "Uhh, no, don't wor..." my words lost in the heads turning of every student as they watched Chadia sprint down the hallway, all quietly whispering, "oooooooooooh, now he's gunna get it."
"Me too! I'll help" replied Andy, turning out of the line and beginning to unfasten a hitherto hidden fluorescent orange belt. "I'll teach Arius to get in line on time for you Mr. Davis, don't worry."
At this point I felt something akin to a vein of panic, though to be fair, the feeling of panic is rare after 6 years of teaching in the Bronx.
"Hold here please, I'll take care of it," exuding all the confidence I could muster, and marching towards my classroom door. By some miracle the class stayed where they were, and did not witness Chadia hopping on one foot while grabbing her shoe and hurtling it at Arius yelling, "I'm gunna teach you how my momma taught me to listen!" Nor did they see Andy whip his belt from the loops. "You listen to Mr. Davis when he says line up Arius!"
"Oh shiiiiiit!" yelled Arius, (6'2'' in 6th grade) ducking, swerving and jumping from the room in efforts to get away from Chadia's second shoe which missed him by inches.
Laughing, giggling, shaking their heads, Chadia and Andy came over to me and said, "Don't worry, it's all right Mr. Davis, we don't mean no disrespect. He'll be alright now."
I could only say thank you and head the class downwards towards their deep fried mozzarella sticks and dead-lettuce salad.

Jazz Woman (Poem)

No wonder Chicago kicks ass.

Just follow women on Monroe and Michigan,

just watch the sweet swishing of hips and lips –

smooth curved skin through seamless pride. 

At blue room or Clark the jazz woman sings –

At tap town or Halsted she croons to the night– 

Drifting...

cigar smoked bars just following the stars, tripping on curbs 

all for the jazz woman's song.

fun-filled farce (Poem)

fun-filled farce 

Fear forces:

fast frowns,

frantic faces,

fickle fingers. 

Frontiers foster:

frigid feet

fetid fountains

fantastic frenzies. 

Failure forges:

false fascination.

Failure flips, fizzles falls, flounders. 

Forget flags. Forget fights. Forget fun. Find falsehood fitting.

Fulfill founding father's farce.

Untitled (Poem)

one soggy afternoon I saw an old woman –

she beat a small beige dog – it didn’t argue or yelp,

and when she broke down in tears,

asking the dog to forgive her –

all it could do was stand and lick tears off her hand.