I had the passion 

but not the stamina

nor the discipline, 

no one knew how

to discipline me so 

they just let me be,

Let me play along,

let me think I was

somebody, I could

be somebody, even

without the no-how.

Never cared one bit 

when my bow didn’t

match the rest of the 

orchestra, I could get 

their notes right but 

always a little beyond,

sawing my bow across

the strings, cuttin it up

even if I wasn’t valuable

even if I lacked respect

for rules of European

thought and composure.

A crescendo of trying

to be somebody,

a decrescendo of trying 

to belong, I played along

o yes, I play along. 

Write about walking into the building

as a new teacher. Write yourself hopeful.

Write a row of empty desks. Write the face

of a student you’ve almost forgotten;

he’s worn a Derek Jeter jersey all year.

Do not conjecture about the adults

he goes home to, or the place he calls home. 

Write about how he came to you for help

each October morning his sophomore year.

Write about teaching Othello to him;

write Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle, 

rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch heaven. 

Write about reading his obituary

five years after he graduated. Write

a poem containing the words “common”

“core,” “differentiate,” and “overdose.”

Write the names of the ones you will never

forget: “Jenna,” “Tiberious,” “Heaven,”

“Megan,” “Tanya,” “Kingsley” “Ashley,” “David.”

Write Mari with “Nobody’s Baby” tattooed

in cursive on her neck, spitting sixteen bars

in the backrow, as little white Mike beatboxed

“Candy Shop” and the whole class exploded.

Write about Zuly and Nely, sisters

from Guatemala, upon whom a thousand

strange new English words rained down on like hail

each period, and who wrote the story

of their long journey on la bestia

through Mexico, for you, in handwriting

made heavy by the aquís and ayers

ached in their knuckles, hidden by their smiles.

Write an ode to loose-leaf. Write elegies

on the nub nose of a pink eraser.

Carve your devotion from a no. 2

pencil. Write the uncounted hours you spent

fretting about the ones who cursed you out

for keeping order, who slammed classroom doors,

who screamed “you are not my father,” whose pain

unraveled and broke you, whose pain you knew.

Write how all this added up to a life.  

 

the unholy trinity of suburban late-night salvation
barring seemingly endless options of worship

bean burrito breadsticks and mashed potatoes
or a soft taco pan pizza and a buttered biscuit

an unimaginable combination of food flavors
for people not ready to go home to their parents

and yet none of the options feel quite right
so maybe I should call it Self-Portrait as idling

in a drive-thru with your friends crammed
across the sunken bench seats avoiding

the glow of the check engine light with black tape
pressed with a precision unseen anywhere else

in their lives as a fractured voice says don’t worry
take your time and order whenever you’re ready

from behind a menu backlit like the window
inside of a confessional booth as the hands

of the driver open up like a collection basket
for the wadded-up bills and loose change

that slowly stack up as the years go by
and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be

in this analogy but I know about masking
warning signs and hearing out of tune

voices scream WE’RE THE KIDS WHO FEEL
LIKE DEAD ENDS so instead I’ll call it Self-

Portrait as From Under the Cork Tree
or maybe even Self-Portrait as whatever

album people listen to when they love
their friends and still want to feel connected

to the grass walls of a teenage wasteland
that they can’t help but run away from