something


I have done
so little
recently, sat
in the same place
for so long
that a slight change
in the light
or the size of the room
burns my eyes.

I am sedentary,
a stagnant mass of
cells.

something in the world
propels 
the poem
onto the page,
music,
violence,
love,

but when the muse is gone
the night
dries
as if destroyed
and that sudden feeling
of sudden
absence
burns
and burns
and burns.

the moon, too,
is burning
and
full 
tonight
looking as if
she has swallowed
some sunlight,
though not quite enough
to turn the black sky
blue.
I watch her from my window.
she is brilliant enough
to see
through eyelids.

nothing
is happening

for
poetry
makes 
nothing
happen

something,
something in the world
makes a poem,
but the muse is always
fleeting.

I watch the moon
from my bedroom window,
the record player has fallen
silent
with the scene

I have sat in the same place
doing absolutely nothing
and as the moon
burns
through the eyelids, something
stirs.

Note: The quotation 'for poetry makes nothing happen' is from W. H. Auden's "In Memory of W. B. Yeats."



so he really did like me after all


i came into Anatomy, block two,
and saw 
written on the white board,
Research Paper - Topics:

but there weren't any topics listed

so
i added some

Adenosine triphosphate
Walt Whitman
Peptic ulcers
Air Jordans
Breaking Bad
Heart (organ)
Boston, Mass.

Mr Quattrone walked into the room.
"Are you throwing up on the white board again,
Luis?" he asked.

"Just listing topics, Q," i said.

he walked back behind his desk.
one girl said,
"That'll all be gone when the custodians
clean the boards tonight."

"The custodian is my Uncle Don," I said.
"He bets on the horses. I wish I could go
with him sometimes. He's a real
angel, he's my favorite person."

"I thought I was your favorite person,"
Q said, from behind his long desk.

"He's my favorite relative."

Q smiled.

another girl asked,
"Can you even bet on the horses if you're
under eighteen?"

someone answered, "No, but you can get
adults to bet for you."

"My mom works at the track."

"So do both my parents."

then someone asked me,
"So who is your favorite person, Luis?"

i didn't think on it.
"Maybe Walt Whitman," i said (i 
was then asked to explain 
who Walt Whitman
was).

Q walked out from behind his desk.
he walked to the whiteboard.
he moved his hand to where i had listed
Walt Whitman
between ATP and
ulcers
and with one swipe of his hand
erased
America's World Poet
from the list.

then he walked 
back behind
his desk
and smiled
and said,
"Alright, everybody, it's time for your test."