Overwhelmed

The tears well in my mind
but defiantly refuse
to release themselves
irritating my eyes
screaming at them
to ache
burn in agony
mirroring the damage
in my heart

fearing that which can't be explained
or anticipated- -
the fading smile
on my son's face
the most difficult decision,
an unwanted letter
coming at wartime

closing my eyes
to hide from the shame
of acceptance
the sheet of night blanketing
my reality.

Freud in America

The frivolous meandering of the creative
Mind
Trapped within the four walls
Of corporate insanity.
The unimaginable has happened…

Money replaces commitment and passion
Drive and ambition conquer love
The unimpossible moment-
Alone and choices need to be made;
Minimalistic nightmare.

Encroaching on a not so distant horizon
Approaching the inevitable end
Of the simple life
Crushing dreams, but replacing them
With different wants

The angelic soul of a dreamer.
Longs for the constant beauty,
That nature embodies…
The clean air that only the country can provide.

The validation of knowing the possible
Road less traveled
Returning back to a more fulfilling time:

Where chivalry and honor
Were still held in high regard
Knights and maidens in love
And living their land.
Money- only a fluid commodity.

The French revolution
Blanketed in passion
Longing for better treatment
And lives being risked for freedom.
An eternity in solitude for a possibility.

The crushing stagnation
Of 21st century America
The dull hum of cash exchange
No honor or glory
Menial 9 to 5 frustration

The inner child screams for satisfaction
Dies for the opportunity to perform.
Why does the world settle as such?
No possible mobility
Dream—reminders from a desktop wallpaper

Never cease dreaming…
It’s the only truly individual thing there is .

-Starr Sackstein

A Lesson Before

He goes
Unwanting and angry
Grant breathes
His breathless life
Into the soul of a dying man
A man who hasn’t found himself yet
Grant doesn’t know how,
But he must try

Visiting the jail,
Unaware
Not knowing
That he nears
Not knowing that he knows

A teacher
His journey
His lot in life
NOT
To run
“like the nigger he was born to be”
He, Grant
Is better than that
He is supposed to make
A difference

Teacher,
Synonymous with helper
Saving souls
Rediscovering manhood
Through the eyes
Of the already dead

-Starr Sackstein

Awaiting the rest of the party of 5 at Bryant and Cooper

The solitary light
Shining its one eye
Upon my fingers
Shadows looming
Alone
With the vacant
Wooden seats
Old and middle-aged
Business –types
Carouse at the bar
Suits aplenty
No sign of the familiar

Their conversations
Seep superficial bullshit
Tumblers in hand
Floating limes
Amid the rocky glasses
Sipping
Blue fingers
Gently caress the edges
Of drinks

Watching the door
Only after hearing
The breath of outside
Squeak into the airlock
The cool air
Kissing my cheeks
Slowly dropping back
Outdoors
Until the portal once again
Opens

Lost –
So it appears
Although not only
Solitary writer
Others drift
Like wind toward
The lighted doorway
Each in waiting
For the rest of their party
Alighted and desiring relief
From the emptiness
Of no one

Pacing or sitting
Stools or warm leather chairs
Tricked
Suddenly jarred
By memory
Thinking of the last time
Awake 2 am
At the donut eatery
Within view
The thought dead
As is the person
Who lived within it
Other young lives
Uneasy skating
In purgatory

More suits
About 20 by now
Drowning in a sea
Of grays, browns, and navy blues
Discontent – rather irked
Everyone else is always tardy
Opposed to perpetually early
Beyond on time

-Starr Sackstein

“All I Really Want”

Listening to Joni Mitchell
As I often do
In times like these
Hollow times
Desperately seeking identification
Similarity in our miseries
I actually heard tonight
I found what I was looking for
“I am on a lonely road”
I couldn’t have said it better
Traveling and seeking
The absence of my identity

I always believe
That I find myself
When alone
Lose myself when together
I’m asking for love
From those who can’t give
It - -
The sorrow fills me
Endless buckets
With holes
Unable to plug them,
I fill everyone else’s
Hoping it will fill me.
It’s never going to work
Not that way
Not ever
Yet I journey
The same path
Endlessly
Seemingly hopelessly.
I’m weary
I’m losing my strength
I’m sad
I want so much
I can’t grasp.

The world of fears
Keeps me tantalized
And alone
Even when I’ve made my choice
Passionately seeking change
I can’t find my map
And I only know one route
Which gets me
From point A to point B
I have so much to give
And I deserve so much
But I struggle
I lose faith
The tears choke me
Force me to rationalize
What I know
Has always been
“Wrong”
OR just
Not the best

Alone and fighting
This diseased mind
Fighting –
Doing battle
Wanting to medicate
Myself with costumed lies
Pretty faces
Quick wits
Good conversation
Manipulation and an excuse
To believe
Feeling like this
Is all I am worthy of
Knowing that
I’m full of shit
I’m not strong
I’m feeling contaminated
And weak
And getting even more so

Romance-
A farce that I have created
To make my misery
That much greater
When it ends
What would I do?
What if happiness?
What if ease?
What then?
Am I done?
Do I graduate?
Probably not
I don’t ever
Want to forget
This – now-
The emptiness
This strife
This seemingly unending sadness

The blues
I’ve got them
And I’m a sucker
For sunshine
And roses
I’m real
And feeling truly fucked up.
My optimism wavers
And
I fear what happens
When that light begins to fade
And I can’t relight it.
Is that possible?
I hope not.

Choices
Examples
Many different names
The same face
I find you
We seek each other
How do I lose
The commitment
To you?
My disaster
Waiting to happen?
Why can I get
Everything else right?
Why is being right
So important?
When I know I’m not
Even close
Distance
Evasive glances
Not in my own skin
When touched
Wanting to go back
To simpler times
To make the one
Necessary change
To fix all these problems

Daddy –
I struggle
I want you to make it better
I want you to say
It’s gonna be alright
I feel like I’m dying
From the inside out
I feel like being destructive
Because sadly enough
It’s safer.

The rain comes.
It pours,
But my tears do not.
I want them to though.
I’m ready to wash
All this away.
I’m reaching my hand out
Please take it
I don’t know
Where else to turn.
I don’t want to give up.

Variation on the same theme

Migrant thoughts
wander aimlessly
through night minds
seeing clearly through
the dark of sleep
dulcid sounds of breath
inescapable clam
for others
juxtaposed with the restlessness
which craves my company

vanish tired eyes
awaken
torment
teeming disbelief
absent crescendo
wonder why?
how?
not where the map
promised to end
alone in a bed
with three.

August 3, 2008

Disconnected digressions
meander mindlessly
through the quiet night
disrupting sleep
challenging calm

sleep is lingering
yet my heart races
my thoughts migrant
alive
awakened by possibility

the world around me
folding under
gurgling bubbles
of possibility linger
marriage indigestion
poisoned by the venom
of monogamy

crazed wants
balance of hope
torn between
desire and obligation
alone to choose
everything to lose
everything to lose

home as defined
by such
titles and labels
that can never define
but do

the self long ago
discovered
uncovered and embraced
after hiding for so long
in the fear of judgement

whisked back away
solitary
confined to the passion
embraced only
in quiet meditation
unsatisfied
by choices
that were never mine to make

troubled now
by the will
of others
responsibility
questioning only
to whom my loyalty
must lay
outward
or justice
for what feels right
in my soul

irreconcilable damage
could be done
if the truther uttered
my deepest demands
unable to be fulfilled
by current situation

change or be changed
grow or morph
embrace
which is outside
closing eyes
breathing inward
seeking answers
running out
of excuses...

Solitude - unfinished

Atop a picturesque mountain lays a single house with a view of the valley. Lust folliage clothes the eastward side of the mountain in the a checkerboard of green. Simone peeks out her door to greet the morning, alone with her thoughts and silent chatter.

"What's a writer to do with this beautiful day?" Her voice interrupting the calm. Simone left teh city to find her voice and re-embrace the things she loved about her craft.

The visceral beeps from hurried taxis in the street startled her, unfurling her lips and tightly wincing, Simone made every attempt to shake teh crowd. Shivering, she gave a violent shake and decided to focus forward. "It's no wonder I couldn't think on Broadway. This is much better."

Slowly shifting her attention back to the rising steam from the fresh coffee and the fog on the canyon lifting, Simone relished in the new day.

Musings of an educator proctoring a PSAT

Our world is tanking -
financially, morally
reprehensible acts of knowing,
perpetrated on the suspicious ignorant.
those which cannot defend;
those who are called to defend;
suffering for those who won't
dying more each day.

Fighting wars,
wars they didn't start.
Systems they never belonged to
chained to their own reckoning
watching the boat sink

Unsavory apathetic youth
observe idly
conform and desist
thrusting their discontent
on those who seek to help them
Fighting not with what keeps them -
oppressed and ignorant
But with each other
unknowing of their power -
effective only in numbers.
Incapable of mobilizing
trapped in their own ignorance

Doing the dance
pushing back
wanting them angry enough
to react
create change
damage the status quo
dramatically transform
their world; our world
their futures

Relationships...

Moment to moment satisfaction
crucified for whole picture reality
a crucial turning point
unavoidable - - unaccepting

Hiking on Columbus Day

a silent lover
watching the wind shiver
shaking leaves like clothes
to teh soft bed below
brightly colored memories
decorate the path
guiding confused straight
holding the earth still
for moments
allowing quiet calm
slumber beneith the naked
anonymous sky

a fresh smell
of new life
beckons from the distant forest
calling just beyond
the horizon
in the hidden treeline
a longing to discover
the origin of its voice
a siren of the abyss
serenading a longing within

the rooster cocks from
the dense folliage
a smile finds itslef
on a forgotten mouth
a light beacon
amind the seemingly
unending darkness

pushing to understand
developing courage
only for a complete
lack of validation
of what took so much

Professor Peabrain

Poetry is my thing, so when I registered for my poetry genre class at my school, I was sure I would ace it. Much to my chagrin that was NOT the case. Instead, what ensued was ultimate humiliation.

A morning, not unlike all the others (cue the cheesy Disney music) I trekked across campus to my poetry class still exhausted from the night before. Poetry was my first class on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Today my professor had us examining a somewhat dead structure of poetry - the sestina. We looked at a few famous examples and then were assigned to write one of our own.

I left class exhilerated - overcome and excited about attempting a feat never before tried... such structure, particular rhyme scheme and meter. I went from wonder to dismay and ultimate shut down when I realized it wasn't coming naturally to me. I couldn't hear the meter. The feet evaded my ear.

Crumpled paper blanketed my floor promting me to run to my professor's office hours. I waited patiently outside the door only to be called in with surprise. Apparently he wasn't expecting to see me, of all his students, there. I was a poet afterall, so what kind of help could I enlist from him?

I don't need to bore you with the horrific details of the next few moments. The shout that was heard round campus. I was reduced to tears - "Can't you hear it????"

"I'm trying; it's just not coming. I need help." I swore I couldn't, but he thought I was mocking him. I couldn't imagine anyone who would make such an effort to visit him if they really did get it. What kind of sense would that make? I mean, who WANTS to visit a professor for no apparent reason who isn't even good looking?

"Try it again," he spoke at me as he rolled his eyes and started flipping through the books that were shrewn around his desk.

"Is this right?" I asked nervously. (Admittedly, I wish I had a copy of my sestina somewhere, so I could show you, reader, the disaster that was my moment.)

"You are still adding extra syllables. Da Da Da Da..." He trailed off as he started to pat out the rhythm again straight out of elementary school music classroom. I couldn't take it anymore. Swearing that I would not let him get to me, I felt the wettness welling in the corner of one of my eyes like a two timing friend who ratted me out to a dean after we had done something wrong. Mortified that I would give this man the satisfaction of my tears I needed to find an escape route.

Stealthily slipping out his office, there was no escape. The other students who waited for his "aid" slowly slipped into ashen fear observing what had just transpired. It was evident they had heard what happened, but actually seeing the receiver of such crude frustration was embarrassing for all of us. I'm pretty sure even for my professor.

This story does have a happy ending, just not the "and they lived happily ever" one. I complained to the Dean of students and my formal complaint actually help see that professor away from that fine institution. In addition, he issued a formal apology to my class despite the fact that I wasn't present to receive it. Missing class later that week, he thought he was the reason I decided not to return to school. He was wrong, but it didn't hurt for him to believe that for a week.

Possible intro to another story I am working on...a novel about dysfunctional families

Families are so complex. Each is uniquely different and yet they all share common quirks, which enable people with dysfunction to connect in future relationships. How many times in your life have you asked yourself, “Why me? Surely, no one else has ever had to see and put up with the horror I have experienced with these strangers I call family.” It almost doesn’t seem fair, the traumas we must endure in our lives so that the vicious cycle could be perpetuated when we raise children of our own. The irony of this cycle is that no one wants to accept the blame for the woes that fall upon them.

Getting the news: A new mommy’s story

“I think I’m pregnant.” The comment hung in the air like a cartoon thought, a white fluffy cloud of what? “I’m pregnant.” I repeated with more conviction after allowing the pause to become pregnant itself. Aaron was lying on the bed watching television when I burst onto the scene with my news. I’m not sure how I expected him to act as we were only half trying to have a baby, the Russian Roulette method and I don’t think either of us were thinking it would happen so soon.

“Are you sure? Because a minute ago you said you thought you were pregnant; there is a difference.” Aaron looked at me blankly; not void of emotion, but rather terrified or confused or like he ate bad Chinese food.

“I’m pretty sure.” I looked at him waiting for the response I wanted. Perhaps this was slightly unfair because I was so confused about how I felt about it too. Maybe I thought that if he could be thrilled about it, I wouldn’t be so afraid.

“Hold on a second…” and with a pause, he flew down the stairs and out the door only to return home half an hour later with a goody bag of different pregnancy tests. “I even got one in Spanish, just in case.” As he continued to empty the CVS bag onto to the bed, I glanced at him both smiling and shaking my head.

“How is finding out in Spanish going to change the plus or minus sign?”
“Just go take another one so we can be sure.” He was quite serious as he stood bedside holding a box out to me. “Try again, please.”

“Okay if you say so…” Three minutes later, in Spanish, it was confirmed yet again that I was in fact pregnant. “Well?” I questioned, again waiting for some kind of emotional outpouring.

“This is great. We’re having a baby.” Aaron still looked terrified, but now for my sake, he was at least trying to look excited. It must have been hard for him though because he did lose a couple of shades of color and I’m even sure that I witnessed a few strands of hair turn silver in that instant.

Quickly I walked from the bathroom to the bedroom and scooped up the phone. My mother was going to be ecstatic, I thought; she’s wanted grandchildren since I was born. As I was dialing the number I was trying to come up with something clever to say…Ring, Ring, Ring… is she ever going to answer the phone? Damn call waiting, pick up the phone!

“Hello. What’s up?” My mom, cheerful as usual, greeted me almost suspecting the news which certainly took some of the steam out of telling her.

“Guess what…” I started.

“Are we having a baby?” She questioned, not even giving me a chance to share the good news with her myself. You have to understand that this is the way almost every conversation started ever since I had been married for a few months. I suppose she felt that eventually she would be right or at least she had hoped.

“Suddenly it’s we!” I shot back. There went my moment of surprise and wit drowned by sarcasm. I guess it didn’t matter anyway seeing as my mom is psychic and the pregnant vibration was probably lingering over me before I even knew like low tide by the shore.

“I knew it… you are going to have a girl. I already started buying my little girl some things.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself, mom. I need to make an appointment with the doctor and once it’s confirmed we can get more excited.” I’m not quite sure why I was so reluctant to celebrate, but suddenly I was worried. What if I tell a lot of people and I lose the baby? What if this affects my ability to get a new job? Suddenly I was charged with keeping a big secret and an even bigger challenge was to make sure that my mom could keep it too. I mean, let’s face, she was going to be a grandmother, the moment she had been waiting for her whole life.

That night as was lying in bed, completely unable to sleep, the fear that was evident on Aaron’s face was creeping into my consciousness. What if I lose the baby? What if the labor is terrible? What if I’m a bad mother? What if, I mean how is this going to change everything? What it I’m not ready to be a mommy? I’m not sure I’ve ever really doubted my ability in anything I’ve set out to do, but suddenly I was panicking about a baby who wasn’t even close to here yet. All of a sudden I felt trapped and angry that my life was over. I began to think of the many irresponsible things I’ve done in my life and even recently. How was I going to pull this together? Were Aaron and I even ready for this kind of adjustment in our marriage?

These thoughts and others tore me up for most of the night and I am sorry to report, that they didn’t end right away. Even after the doctor had confirmed it and I made my first OB appointment (which ironically was scheduled for my 1 year anniversary), I still questioned my feelings about the amazing time in my life. I reminded myself that many women can’t even have children and I should be grateful for such an opportunity. Motherhood is what we are all supposed to be raised for, right? Why did I feel so unsure of myself then? Am I even old enough to be a mom?

A few months before while I was at a conference for English teachers in Indianapolis, one of my best friends got this glorious news as well, so she became my beacon of knowledge. She was a few months ahead of me, and I was so excited for her when I found out she was pregnant. I was still reluctant, however, to admit my trepidation about my joyous news, even to one of my closest and oldest friends. I was ashamed of feeling so nervous and unsure.

My first trimester was wrought with mixed emotions. I had terrible morning sickness, extreme sensitivity to smells and I couldn’t tell anyone around me at work; although there was speculation. I was in transition between jobs and being pregnant could be something that could hinder my ability to find gainful employment. We all know it’s not supposed to, but it would be hard to convince any employer to hire someone who three months after they started, would need to take at least 8 weeks off. So I just kept the news to myself, slowly leaking it out like a pinhole in balloon; one person at a time, with a hushed finger in front of my mouth. It certainly was a big secret. Fortunately I didn’t really start to show until I was about 5-6 months along and by that time it wasn’t a secret anymore: I had found a job and I was saying goodbye to everyone at my old job. I extra emotional about some of my first students graduating and everyone was happy for me.

My second and third trimesters flew by in the blink of an eye and once the hormones balances out, I was loving being pregnant (with the exception of strangers feeling the need to touch me). I was the healthiest I’ve ever been, getting sleep and eating right. I was fortunate not to gain too much weight and worked up until almost the instant I gave birth.

It was parent teacher conference night at school and I had conjured the strength to ask for the night off because I was on my feet all day and in my 8th month. No one had a problem with it because I would be present for the day time conferences the following day and I alerted the parents to my known absence prior to their arrival. I waved goodbye to my co-workers right after classes ended and went home like any other day. I wasn’t due for another couple of weeks.

So it’s rare they told me for first time pregnancies to be early, was it… well they were wrong. At 1:30 in the morning of November 22, 2005 I was awakened by dampness. No one tells you that when your water breaks that the flood just keeps coming… and boy did it. I ran to the bathroom and screamed for my husband to wake up. “Aaron, I think it’s time. Call the doctor.”

“Are you sure you didn’t just pee yourself?” His sensitivity in his half awake state was overwhelming.

“Yes, I’m sure it’s not that. I think I would know. I have no control over this… I’m leaking. Call the doctor.” My anxiety was beginning to grow, but not as much as I would have thought.

“We have to go to the hospital and enter through the back exit. Our doctor said she would meet us once you are admitted.” Aaron’s ability to make believe that this was all a dream was quickly ending and he was very supportive making sure I had everything I needed. “How are you doing?”

“I’m wet. Let’s just get going.” I was wearing his pants and had a dish towel swimming around in them trying to soak up the flood. I’m pretty sure that Noah, his arc and all of the animals could have swam through this puddle.

Once I arrived at the hospital I was quickly asked to change out of my clothes and it was confirmed that the fluid was amniotic fluid. It was happening and on my brother’s birthday two weeks early. “I don’t want any drugs. I want to do this naturally.” I don’t know what I was thinking.

“Really? We don’t get many women opting to do that anymore,” my nurse Anthony replied. “It is your choice though. Just realize that you can change your mind up until a certain time period.”

“I won’t. I want my baby to come into this world drug free.”

As those words were lingering in the air, several hours later I was singing a different tune. “Is it too late? Is it too late? I want an epidural. Get me some drugs.” The urgency in my request I’m sure was not uncommon especially for us deluded types who think we can do it without help. Aaron watch the contractions on my monitor increase and listen as my quiet little moans became more evident. There was no screaming like in the movies. No cursing or blaming. Just soft moans marking the beginning and end of some of the more intense contractions until it was time to push; and push I did even if we didn’t know at this point that my little baby boy was ass backwards.

“How far along are we?” The doctor on call came to check on me after I had been pushing with the birthing nurse for about an hour. She looked concerned. “Can someone get me a sonogram machine ASAP?” I looked at Aaron.

“What’s going on?” I looked confused.

The machine came in stat and it was confirmed that Logan was entering this world the wrong way. He was driving the wrong way down a one way street and that beautiful bald head the nurse reported on earlier was in fact his beautiful soft butt. “Here are your options: 1. Continue with a vaginal birth and there is a chance your uterus will close on the baby’s neck. This option is safer for you. 2. Have an emergency section. This is safer for the baby, but more dangerous for you given how far down your canal he his. You have 3 minutes to make a decision. I’ll come back.” So resolute and short. No emotion, just information. I suppose that was the safest way to be.

“So?” I looked at Aaron; the terror was in his eyes. “There is no choice. I go for the section. I’m healthy; I will make it out of this okay. I’m worried about our baby.” I was crying I’m sure, but I don’t really remember.

“Okay,” Aaron replied holding my hand, his eyes sharing the horror that his mouth wouldn’t say.

He wanted me to be safe; I was more concerned about the baby. The doctor came back in with the anesthesiologist in tow.

It gets kind of foggy from here because there were many drugs administered. “Let me know if you can feel this,” I anesthesiologist asked repeatedly until I was no longer complaining of discomfort. The doctors got to work quickly. I held Aaron’s hand and watched his face, until it started hurting and they were pulling my body all over the place. I could only see shadows through the curtain separating the doctors from me and then there was darkness.
I wasn’t awakened to cries and I was worried. Aaron was holding my little Logan Max and his eyes were looking right back at me, wide round black eyes. He almost looked like an alien in a little blue and pink striped hat. 5 pounds 14 ounces. 20 inches long. He’s healthy and I’m okay. No fair, I thought, Why did Aaron get to hold our son first?

When I was wheeled into my recovery room, Aaron went to tell our parents what had happened. “She’s okay.” I imagine he told them. I was greeted an hour later in my room with the most beautiful baby boy. My family was overwhelmed with joy and in that one instant, my whole life changed. Suddenly I didn’t care so much about anything that wasn’t for my son.

Now that over a year has passed, I can say that motherhood suits me. I had no idea of my own capacity for strength and selflessness. I had spent so much of my life consumed with what I wanted that I never realized how much I wouldn’t care once my son was born. I feared not knowing how to care for him or how to love him, but that came without trying. The unconditional love that existed lived within me already waiting for a chance to show through. It’s that one speck of strength that a person hopes is there, but isn’t ever tapped into until it has to be. Motherhood is everything in one: happiness, sadness, love, strength, pride and love. Logan is my heart (and it’s a good thing because I know that there will be many moments when it won’t feel so easy to be forgiving… like when he bites my face or sticks metal objects in an electrical outlet… or stays out all night). Man do I have a greater respect for my own mom now!

Liz - unfinished - draft

Those who didn’t know Eliza Glass would see a girl who was somewhat ordinary, and of moderate beauty. They’d notice her soft brown locks that shaped her sweet-heart shaped face and well proportioned button nose. What might have stood out, if someone was looking were her sea green eyes that could tell stories as deep as the ocean. However, Liz, as Eliza liked to be called, was often left to fits of fancy and only people who truly knew her were fortunate enough to comprehend her depth.

Perhaps this is what starts such a unique and noteworthy tale; a young girl seeking affection and a young man who didn’t know he would find love in an unexpected way. Liz was bright, even a person who wouldn’t have recognized her quietly striking looks would have noticed that. From a young age she’d watch quiz shows or indulge in matches of trivial pursuit. She was the captain of her high school academic decathlon team and went on to a prestigious university. So when she decided to try her luck with jeopardy no one was surprised.

It was a whimsical idea at first, quite a random act of playful “what if” that led Liz to even notice that they were scouting in her small town. “What do I have to lose?” Liz mused to her best friend Robin.

“Absolutely nothing, but what are the odds that you will actually get on?” Robin broke into to Liz’s moment.

“I got the audition, right? So what is there to lose?” Liz had a one track mind and so she left work early that day in May and went to the local convention center where the auditions were being held.

The room was meager and almost empty when Liz arrived. There was a heavy-set woman sitting behind a desk by the entrance of the room. “May I help you?” the woman wearing the nametag Kathy inquired.

“Yessss. I’m here for the jeopardy audition?” Liz was confused, but continued to stare at the woman’s weird shaped head.

“Take this paper and a pen and have a seat inside. You are one of the first to arrive. So sit back and try to relax.” The rotund woman said in a jovial manner.

“One of the first to arrive? How many people are coming?”

“There’s usually enough to fill the room.”

“Oh, okay.” Liz stammered through the small doors that opened into the much larger ballroom set up like the high school gym during testing week. There was a giant screen standing in front of the room with an LCD projector waiting to share some news. Right in front of the projector was a large rectangular table with nothing on it which made Liz wonder. Do they single people out and make them sit in the front? That couldn’t be it, but it’s strange what the mind thinks in times of uncertainty.

Moments later the room began to fill and Liz sat patiently in her strategically selected seat. Not too close to the screen, but not too far in the back. Close enough to the aisle for a fast escape and near to the door. The people looked much older than she, much more like they belonged. That didn’t discourage her, however, only made her more curious.

After about 10 minutes, the room was full and although Liz wanted to chat no one else in the room seemed interested in idle conversation. Until there were about 3 chairs remaining when he walked through the small doors. I hope he sits next to me, Liz thought. His striking blue eyes led Liz’s eyes, masking the fact that he was much shorter than the guys Liz usually noticed. He was blond and had a muscular physique. Wonder what a guy like that is doing here? I can’t believe I just thought that. I always hate when people judge me because of the way I look.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” The young man startled Liz out of her head.

“No, it’s not. It’s all yours.” Liz was taken and was glad that this young man didn’t seem like the rest of the people there. He was eagerly writing his name on the paper, large enough for Liz to lean over and see. “So you are Michael,” she said and smiled.

“And you are Liza?” He did the same following her lead.

“Yes, but everyone calls me Liz. It’s nice that you sat here, I was wondering what or who, I mean would fill the seat next to me. I was beginning to think that I smell or something.” After the last words were trailing her lips, Liz’s trademark nervous giggle fell out of her mouth. “Sorry, I always do that when I’m nervous.”

“It was cute. Don’t worry about it. So are you from around here?”

Liz almost let out a loud laugh this time, as if a person who wasn’t from around here would end up at this small site! “Yes, I’ve lived here my whole life.”

4/18/2007 - Virginia Tech

33 dead on a college campus
a travesty to behold
33 dead on a college campus
we all wait for the truth to unfold

There were gun shots in teh dorm
2 people lost their lives.
There were gun shots in the dorm
the shooter is no longer alive.

33 dead on a college campus
We wait to understand why
33 dead on a college campus
33 families never got to say goodbye

Next the shooter ran to mail a package to NBC
He tired to explain his pain
The shooter mailed a package to NBC
The community asked is he sane?

33 dead on a college campus
We waited to understand why
33 dead on a college campus
33 families never got to say goodbye

The engineer building was abused
the students had no chance
the engineer building was abused
out the window some could advance

33 dead on a college campus
We wait to understand why
33 dead on a college campus
33 families never got to say goodbye

One teacher gave his life
He survived the Holocaust
One teacher gave his life
Saved his students at his own cost

33 dead on a college campus
So many will never be the same
33 dead on a college campus
The world has itself to blame

Teaching after vacation

Monday mornin' come
There'll be no more fun
'cause I got to get to work
where my students come to lurk
Got papers to grade
my tan it's gonna fade
away goes my smile
won't come back for a while
dreamin' for a weekend
where my fatigue can mend
waiting for the summer...

What happens to democracy when ruined?

Does it go on parade
or decide just to fade

like a tan after summer
into winter's great grasp?

Does it encompass other worlds
like the U.S. Flag unfurled?

Do we make our mark
depsite fighting through the dark?

Does it force beliefs
on those who believe
that which is so unfamiliar
to each of us?

Does it take lives
like souless adulterous wives?

Who's to blame
when our country causes such
shame?

Who is held responsible?

Rejoicing in the Declaration

The world
I long for my young son
to experience
is one of tolerance
and peace -
a place
where people's beliefs
are respected
and rejoiced in
as the diversity
which is offered
through these
circumstances
develops a well-rounded soul
and thoughtful mind

Teaching Potential

The ridiculous musings
of an outspoken soul
hoping to plant
the bulbs of curiosity
firmly within
the consciousness
of young minds
who can conceivably
change our world
if they only want
if they only think

The Duty of Youth

That which rouses us to protest
Forces us to consider injustice
Not for the few, but the masses
Sometimes those brothers and sisters
Unfamiliar to each of us
For every nameless, faceless person
We choose to ignore
Only becomes the world's personal loss
and each of our responsibility.

We are forces as citizens
To take control of our decisions
Therefore the necessity
of our own empowerment
of Knowledge
Choices to lead the young
Inciting the anger which is deserved
Aggressively seeking answers
to the lies being digested as truth

The media spinning webs
of believable alternate realitites
to the unthoughtful mind
Swallowing whole the disese
of the few -
parents, politicians and journalists?

We, the young,
Fight wars
Wars predicated on freedoms
Liberating those seemingly withouth
Pressing the ideals
Thinly covering old money
Deeply routed in oil
Unfortunately never asking
the right questions
all the while
wondering why
yet brainlessly accepting
the sub-par explanations
cooked up as law
in the name of democracy

Drinking to Educate...

http://education.waikato.ac.nz/research/files/etpc/files/2004v3n3nar5.pdf
English Teaching: Practice and Critique December, 2004, Volume 3, Number 3
http://education.waikato.ac.nz/research/files/etpc/2004v3n3nar5.pdf pp 95-102
Copyright © 2004, ISSN 1175 8708 95

The Suburban Myth: Musings from a recovered suburban dreamer

Green everywhere. Sod-lined streets carpet large uninviting lawns, drawing people in, yet threatening outsiders with their vastness. Money seemingly disposable like the oak leaves that umbrella the streets and dim the daylight serving as natural shades to this oasis. No sidewalks, only grass and trees for as far as the eye can see.

Education dawns on these horizons, no differently that elsewhere, yet most young professional educators dream of being a part of this alluring fantasy. The alternative urban environment with its cold, empty landscape beckoning to few it would seem. Tall buildings, with a solitary tree planted for posterity and sad dedication, on the gate lined playground and fenced-in windows. Certainly not the environment any idealist imagines themselves at home.

The stark contrast of affluent districts and communities to urban, city-funded schools is evident to anyone who cares to look. The setting is different and so are the students, but not in the most obvious ways. The outlook on education is supposed to be the same, but clearly statistics prove otherwise.

I was a young inner city teacher lured away from the ills of the city to a small, suburban district with the promise of longevity, support for my creativity and the green so apparent in my new surroundings. I was sure that working there would be a positive change for my career; I had paid my dues nearly bleeding heart to death.

My first few years of teaching were trial by fire. Thrust into a classroom with little to no experience and given a modicum of support. My direct administrators seemed ready for my imminent failure; they reveled in my fear. The students were frustrated and apathetic, but they didn’t want to be. They tested me constantly, but I rose to the occasion. I grew to love my job as a teacher working for the kids who could have been called “the little engines that could.”

I started in a failing school which is probably how I got the job so easily with no experience. They were desperate and I was hungry; it was a winning combination. I hadn’t realized that when I shook hands with the Assistant Principal on Thursday that she would want me to start working on Monday because the vacancy had already been developing a life. I later discovered that I was the third teacher to be brought into the position I filled, all within the first three weeks of a school year. This was not an uncommon incident in my school which was also something I became well acquainted with as the years passed.

After three years of service my opportunity to head east arrived. My school that was failing to begin with was now falling apart. The only people who cared about it were being ejected and the state was ready to give it a facelift due to its consistently worsening grades. It was growing increasingly more difficult to do the work that I loved without constant oversight and changing tides. We had a sea of red tape that was drowning even the most well-intentioned and now after successfully being removed from NYC’s Impact school list, we were transferred to the SURR list. In retrospect, the school was longed for closure and in December of 2007 it was officially announced that the school would be closing.

I grew up in the suburbs and had often longed for the opportunity to work with kids “who were bound for higher education,” kids that I perceived to be more like me. (Ironically, I never liked the people I grew up with and never felt like I fit in.) I wanted a job that would reward my hard work and time with the money that would compete with the high paying technology job I left to pursue a career in service. I was filled with optimism that this would be the beginning of my career, one that I hoped would last a while.

Driving up to my new school in summer, preparing for orientation and the new school year was exciting. Set far away from anything and everything else, it was truly a school on a hill, beach side. I thought foolishly that appearances would be faithful and that my new home would be a warm yet challenging one. I was eager to begin.

Soon after my first term began, I noticed that things were not as I had pictured them. It took much longer to develop relationships with my students and my colleagues were leery of my less traditional ways. I was described as “free-spirited” and “liberal,” words and phrases that I had not realized were taboo. Needless to say the fantasy crashed quickly.

It started when I let administration know that I was expecting my first child around the beginning of December. I was dutiful to my job detail, but also had to take care of my health. When I spoke with the personnel administrator about my situation (as I was working there too short a time to qualify for the family medical leave act), it was decided I would take unpaid leave once my sick time was exhausted. I specifically recall asking this person if my maternity would negatively influence my chances of a timely tenure, he was reluctant to give me a straight answer. Let the record show that this was the one of the first signs that something was not kosher.

I returned to work promptly, so as not to hurt my career, students and newspaper. I wanted them to recognize my dedication. Giving up time at home with my new child to appease some irate parents about the long term sub who was me for a few months and willingly resuming the many activities and commitments that beseeched me earlier. I wasn’t going to let anyone down; it’s not in my nature.

I finished the year strongly. A benefit to my maternity leave was the renewed sense of appreciation from my students which ensured smooth sailing through the end of the year. I got stellar reviews and I felt more a part of the community. Parents were happy. The staff was happy. I was happy. But gray skies loomed on the horizon as earlier in that same school year, the principal who had hired me was promoted to assistant superintendent. Great for him, not so great for many of us. I didn’t know that then. I’m sure that none of us knew the ramifications of that transition when it happened. We were hopeful that despite the consistent changing of the guard (the school had consumed 5 principals in 5 years), we would be able to survive as a community.

Fervent to outdo my performance from the year before and to make a good impression on the new principal, I ventured up to school over the summer to meet with him about the newspaper I advised and meet with my staff to start preparing the September issue. With my son in tow, I marched up to his office only to be kept waiting and then told that I needed to make another appointment or maybe I should just email him my concerns. Remember earlier I said gray skies were on the horizon and that I should have seen the warning clouds, well here was another omen from the heavens that I chose to ignore.

I did email him… we seemed to agree on the direction of the paper. The kids wanted more responsibility and I wanted to give it to them even if it made me a less favorable person in the community due to their honesty. It was their paper after all. The principal assured me that so long as the paper was fair and balanced and it represented the will of the students he had no problem with us being a little more forward in our views. And we were.

This forward move didn’t only propel the paper though, it was the way I wanted to run my classes as well making me an easy target for anyone who wasn’t so interested in my success. Evidently the new honcho had an agenda that none of us were aware of in the beginning. It showed itself insidiously in the months that followed. My days at my little oasis on hill were numbered. I could sense it and it wasn’t just that paranoid tick a person gets when they feel like they are being watched. It was real and constant and the presence of the fear was pervasive in the classrooms.

First it was the conversation about a parent who called because of a political discussion that was held in my senior class while discussing George Orwell’s Animal Farm. Apparently I was “espousing my political beliefs” and therefore not acknowledging all student views. My side was never taken into account. I was only talked to and told to watch myself. For the record, I still don’t know who the parent was as the person never contacted me to discuss the issue. My union rep claimed she had never heard anything of this phone call either.

Second it was a look that I supposed gave a freshman student during an unannounced observation that showed the principal that I don’t like children. Upon hearing this assertion about my feelings toward kids, I sat perplexed about what look I could have possibly given a student to make he/she feel like what they had to say didn’t matter. It also came out in the post-observation discussion that he didn’t think I had good classroom management skills. At first I tried to defend myself, but quickly realized the rocks on the steep cliff I was on were sliding out from under me quickly. Fighting and defending was futile because he had his mind made up. I knew in my heart how I felt about kids and I also knew that I had better than good management skills as I knew how to command the attention of 34 city kids who usually had no interest in English. But this principal decided that I couldn’t and that was all that mattered now.
I didn’t give up though. I still pushed myself to get my students to think and to challenge what was given to them. I even devised a student run grammar project that gave students the opportunity to teach each other complex grammatical ideas and constructs. It was all so exciting, but it was also the last nail in my coffin.

The project had worked out so well in my honors class that I decided to allow my Regents students to take a turn at it. I figured at the very least students would become familiar with their own topic and they were that much better off for that. I had one pair of boys who didn’t take the project too seriously and allowed them to hand out a sheet that was not well made. Granted, I should have made them do it over, but instead I used it as a teaching point when they got in front of the class. My principal didn’t feel that this was an effective way to use class time.
The end was in sight long before this “incident.” I had the paranoia of a person who knows they are being watched. They needed something and I handed it to them. I had not been enjoying the year since early October. I didn’t feel supported by my administration and the union wasn’t strong enough in my school. I actually started longing to be back in the inner city where I felt appreciated.

I announced my resignation shortly after that. I knew that if I hadn’t potentially other bad things would happen. I didn’t realize that working in the burbs came with so many rules that no ever told me about. Being a good teacher and bring passion to my discipline just weren’t enough. After all, my hippie like ways is what made me a threat in this particular district. So it was with a less than heavy heart I started looking elsewhere and questioning my zest for the profession. Was it just the place I was working in or was it the direction that education seemed to be moving in in general?

My answer would in come in the form of a new opportunity. I was getting ready to explore my other options when I was told about a new small school in the city. A school with a focus in journalism and a progressive take on how education can be different. Couldn’t hurt to learn more, I thought.

One Saturday afternoon, I called the school to get a valid email address where I could forward my resume and cover letter. I ended up getting the principal on the phone. Sent the information right over and by the end of the day I had a call back asking me to come visit for the day. At the time, it seemed excessive, but I agreed and went with an open mind.

The school was still dark when I arrived as I am notorious for early arrival. Punctuality is kind of a rule for me. So to avoid being late, I am always early. I got to talking to the students and some of the other employees only to realize that I just found the Promised Land. A progressive school it was and the other candidate for a position was not as turned on by the prospect. I didn’t care though because the place to educate that I had always dreamed about did exist and it wasn’t private. By the end of the day, I wanted the position so badly that the principal could have offered me a custodial job and I would have taken it. The most important part was that she, the principal was just as excited about me as I was about her and her school.

It’s all about fit. What the conservative school in the suburbs didn’t understand about me was the exact thing that this new school admired in me. I quickly shed my infatuation for the riches and green shores of the suburbs realizing that most things are seldom what they seem from a far. It’s easy to want what can be perceived as better, but the grass is always greener or browner depending on what side of street you are standing on.

More money comes with a bigger price than the paycheck I was taking home. The ingratitude and lack of support was a dismal side effect that no one tells an aspiring teacher about when he/she dreams of the green. Just because something looks beautiful doesn’t mean that it is. That’s why believing that taking a job in suburbs is better all the time is a myth, because there really are no guarantees for it.

My Earliest Memory: A Female Righty Takes the Mound

My Earliest Memory: A Female Righty Takes the Mound

Spaghetti dinner was wafting through the kitchen. The delectable smells of my mom’s gourmet meal came up through my nose reminding me that it was my favorite time of day, dinnertime. Much like Snoopy, dinnertime was something I rejoiced in. The kitchen smelled like a delicious Italian restaurant with the pasta boiling in the pot and the chicken baking in the oven. My mom was an excellent chef. She made even the simplest, most mundane foods special and everyone enjoyed their full bellies when they were done. Her food brought my family together; it could have brought countries in time of war together. 6:00 PM every night dinner was served and we were all ready to eat. My dad would have just walked in from work and my mom would be waiting on the steps to greet him. Dinnertime represented togetherness.

The kitchen was wallpapered yellow, white and silver art deco patterns and the cabinets were dark wood, chocolate-colored paneling. An array of plants hung before the large bay windows; we called that area the jungle because the plants actually tickled whoever sat in the seat on the inside of table making it very uncomfortable to eat if the table wasn’t pushed out of its grasps. The table was plain, unfinished round oak with thin lines etched in it that we all used to run our fingers along because it felt textured. It resembled a large circular chopping block only we ate on it and were never allowed to cut directly on it without a cutting-board. The chairs were wicker and most of them had the butt worn in deeply from all the guests who had graced our table at mealtime. I had my own table, dark wood paneled, gold seat and fake wood tabletop for easy cleaning. I was separate from the table, but just close enough so I could hear and see most of what was going on.

Alone at my table for one, I was dressed in only my underwear. I was a messy little girl and my
parents were tired of me ruining all my clothing. My mom used to laugh and say that she could always tell what I ate because I wore it proudly on my clothing, in my hair and on my face. There was a good chance that somebody else wore my meal too if I was in the right mood. Tightly strung ringlets draped themselves in my face as I sat ready to eat.

“Here you go, Starr. Dinner is served.” My mother gingerly placed a bowl of spaghetti and sauce before me and gave me a plastic fork to eat with.

“Thank goo!” I sat there inspired by the bowl of food, waiting for the opportunity to eat it. I stared longingly at the pile of delectable treats searching for my plan of attack.

Then the grown-ups sat at the “adult” table. My parents and their friends were hanging out on a Friday night. They were sharing conversation and laughing.

“Wow! This smells good Joy. Do you do anything else with your time other than cook because this would have taken me all day!” Dave remarked to my mom.

“You know I love to cook,” my mom replied.

“What have you been up to lately? We haven’t gotten together for a while and I was wondering if anything new was in the works.” Dave asked my mom candidly if she was up for anything.

My dad chimed in, “You know Joy she always has something cooking… no pun intended.”

It sounded like they were having a really good time. I was outside of their conversation in my fortress without walls. “Ma! Hey! What about me?” I made noises to get their attention, but much to my chagrin, it didn’t elicit the attention I felt I deserved. I sat there plotting a way to get them to notice me. I tried to push my way out of the seat, but it felt like I was strapped in and then I started playing with my food, (which was not unusual). The marinara sauce was deeply embedded in my nails and all over my hands and then the perfect plot struck me. I grabbed a large handful of the spaghetti all squishy between my fingers and I hurled it at my mom’s friend as hard as I could. It was my pitching debut. I started laughing and clapping. The sauce was still flying all over the place, clumps dripping from the jungle and cabinets.

“What the hell!” I heard Sue scream. The adults were covering themselves with their hands so they wouldn’t be soiled by my meal.

“Get down, she still has more in her hand,” my dad yelled as I was still covered in sauce. I was so proud of myself. I was able to hit my mark. The adults quickly grew silent. Then a wave of laughter erupted. They didn’t know how to respond, but I think they got the point. I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to be one of them.

“I guess she didn’t want to be left out!” Mom giggled. “I always knew I would raise a girl who knew how to get what she wants!” This whole sneak attack could have been avoided if they just let me sit at the table.

Perhaps this memory is vivid because I’ve been reminded of it so many times. “Hey Starr, do you remember the time you hit Gloria with a handful of pasta?” My mom or dad would say while my godparents were at the house. My parents always enjoy reminding me of the silly things I’ve done. It could also be a staple in my consciousness because it was a time when I first recognized my autonomy of action while still learning how to get my needs met. I’m not saying what I did was appropriate, but at the same time I was taking risks about how to be heard. I was unafraid of the repercussions of my actions and luckily because I was only two or three, there wasn’t much of a punishment.

My family still looks back fondly on that moment wondering how I never became a big league pitcher. The fact that I am a girl was never going to stop me. I played little league and then softball until I was 16 and I pitched on both of those teams. I suppose my talent started when I was a little girl. It was that first taste of hitting my target that got me intrigued.

Allegory of Hall

Allegory of Hall

Shadows appear behind shades
In the movie-screen window
Reflecting disillusion
Like cave drawings
In Plato’s cave
Shackled to darkened memories
And jaded beliefs
Never seeing real light
Or trusting pristine beauty.

Below the sill,
In the night
At dusk
Beyond cover or freedom
Signs from above
Beckon and fall
Silently motioning
But only the mindless follow
Without question
Or doubt

Peeking behind curtains,
The philosopher king lay exposed
Naked before the shadow dwellers
Making known
What they will never accept

The blackboards project
Dusty non-learning
Begging for attention
And understanding
A relationship, which is never realized

The passing days
Of knowledge and guidance
Float by
All the while
Oars out to sea
And wonder paddles along side
“Do they get ‘it’?”
“Will they ever?”
The abstract “they”
Which the philosopher king never truly knows
Light is shed,
But the bait is never taken

Rambling through existence
Trembling passed
The insecurity and disbelief
The lack of understanding
The misgiving
Or the barren giving tree
Unable to assess
The damage already done.

Dedication means nothing.
It means nothing
To the shadows.
In here,
Beyond hope,
Without meaning,
Seemingly alone
In this crazy wilderness
Believing in them
When they don’t believe
In themselves-

Wanting to teach
Self-satisfaction
Comprehension of the light
Wisdom about the truth
Of the delusion
The truth…
Period.

The birth of sage-like qualities
Questioning and curiosity
Interest piqued
And growing
Developing the bravery
To ask why
And want to know
Learning
Utopia
Cornucopia of wealth
Out of the darkness
In front of the brightest light
Awareness-
The Holy Grail.

-Starr Sackstein

“Hydrant Philosophies” - circa 1998

“Hydrant Philosophies”

Women strutting in business
apparel; scurrying to an unmarked
destination of distant youth.

Dogs taking time to smell the roses
like no human can and redefining
the scent as they curiously slow down.

A moment of opportunity seizes me
overcome with city life and defective
thought, inspired by inescapable
literature. Trembling with shame
transforming. I see me 5 years ago-
unrecognizable.

Asserting myself, the voice of a shattered
lass speaks through my mouth
whispering wintry madness and lies-
I scream inside the canyon beyond my
ears- wishing desperately to be set free.

I wonder “where is Stephen?”
Creativity followed him everywhere
like a nervous tick. I latched on
for the wild ride, but alas, I fell
tumbling to the pavement when
we turned the corner.

My body quite jarred
by the whole experience. I process
and progress
to whatever adventures lye ahead.

The ebb of people brush back
against the edge of the sidewalk
as colors change and technology
is a tyrant to humanity.
“What hasn’t been done?”
Racking my brain-
convention has romanced me
and I am momentarily stunned
in its love. “Set yourself free”
“Set yourself free”- I’m talking and
I’m out there, physically eating the
shackles which locked me to insanity
for ever.

I turn inward, water unmistakably
condensing in my eye balls
feeling torn between comfort
and sobriety- subtlety-silently
engaging in dialogue with a young
me who I silenced long before I
knew she was right. Here I am
a product of every not so perfect
choice that perpetuated my myth
of perfection.

I ramble and rage with burning
emptiness - dying to be filled with
faith self-worth and reliance- knowing
that I can lean without falling-
stand without you- a future
promised never to exist- spawned
from unknowledge- sex with
the most intimate stranger of all-
myself- unrecognizable
in the mirror
which feign the unreal.
I know that I no longer can romp
in the Garden.
But do I even want to?

Spring has been conceived
and the life that once was
mortal and finding its resting
place among new thoughts
and Platonic fantasies of myself,
The Philosopher King
or the president void of conspiracy;
smile in one and a deceit in a bag
of gags. I know the world
of manifestation. Call her Aphrodite,
but wedded strangely enough with --
with Dionysus? Can that be a truth?

My leafs turn with anger as my hand
composes classical wrath and fury
silenced by knowing and invoked
by ignorance; a life too ordinary
not to stand out. I turn myself
outward again to observe as I
crawl back into the womb of the city
dark and yet filled with understanding.
-too black for shadows
only enlightenment

My 26 mile run of inspiration
feels infinite this morning
despite responsibility beckoning
my presence. The ideas must be awakened
perhaps kissed by a frog
who knows tomorrow’s wisdom
only I have no desire to learn
‘till tomorrow.

Do I blink? Stutter? Laugh uneasily
with maniacal remembrance? Cry
yet another acid tear tearing my
emotions into a ragdoll of faithless
envy? What? Who do I turn to when
what worked before doesn’t make the
cut anymore? Am I not human?

Once professing brilliance
I confess my severe lack
of crude revelation
cruel knowledge
emptied from books
and into my wonderful world of Oz-
where all men hide behind curtains
and dreams go unidentifiable.

Perceiving purple as an idea.
Rummaging through the unconscious
looking through the stage curtains
to the audience- performing my crisis
into an unreasonable drama-
living so much of life
in a melodramatic nightmare
at times, but such bliss
in even those moments-
Divinity
I bleed divinity.

Pushing the loose sand
off the top of my courage
awaking to Constance
consistency-stability
I don’t believe that’s my path either.

Caressing a tired me
somehow out of body
separate personalities- duality
I observe me like a distant lover
critical and shy to approach
the quintessential you,
but it’s me.

Do I measure up to the facade
created by the unnamable me?
To understand me?
For me?
A foreigner to the reflection
mirrored in the pond
stagnant and untrusting.

Moving into the flow of action
on the street, I contemplate
Marx, Aristotle and Freud
Government and gender-
I don’t know that these things
make me a better person,
it just complicates my simplicity
and destroys my idealism,
cynicism prevails
and I learn my greatest lessons
from experience not conventional knowledge