When you realize History is someone else's shopping list. The begin to wonder in Alice land part... all letters apply.
When you begin seeing it as a bullet list not yours, yet always, do.
I blame the chants we wrote.
The forced hexes they made us toungue-out scribe.
schooled youth ruth,
a marker metal tube and even called magic, vapor fumes ... and just a tip of
angled felt and bleeding touch
like painting you stained brown canvas bag some woeful happy runes, though on Front
the epitaph each sinstone brick you listed out big big tick for bells of class in tune.
The subjects you are today.
A grocery each day.
From a deposit of schoolbooks they say
he sat upstairs and shot at JFK
The heretic you were to dare to go unsheathed and rabbit eared!
Shiny new they came, crackling spined with stories to spew. Almost wet inside so stuck. Not even wanting open.
Teacher said best prophylactic public thought and sheath it up while being taught.
The first Facebook page.
Paper, please. You cut me up!
Hope my bread sticks out just right.
So, you covered book laid out diaper changed before you
just to protect... its cover.
Manila matte spread neatly flat on which to sketch
the so unique in you... while light deflect the shiny glow of summer casting wink to you some hover,
a dare to dream in day some window on a class.
Each big letter earned in mass title you re-made you. Potatohead.
Big H history? Underline. Science?
Somewhere sure a Saturn.. . Art.... well.
There it Is.
Before you which cannot be titled.
But then in university
what books there were there had lists of people too.
So the rich tried museums and the yellow schoolbus to get you there
and that seems to have done the Work.