an education: wasted energy.

You wait at home and then one day you get a college degree that comes in the mail. You get it in the mail because what they give you at the graduation ceremony is a blank sheet of paper. You get a blank sheet, but that’s if you had even gone. You never even got the blank sheet of paper. You get your college degree in an envelope at your parent’s house. And this should be it. You’ve finally made it, finally, right?

After years of waiting, working, waiting, waiting…

You remember grade school, your teacher telling you to finish college, that you’re so smart and not to waste your gifts. Your teacher tells you that you can go to college and be whatever you want when you grow up, and all the kids hate you because, why you? Why are you going to get to go to college and be whatever you want, but not them? Why not them?

You hide under your desk like a turtle into its shell. Wish you could leave and run away, and dig and dig inside your head to pull out pieces of brain to share with the rest.

You raise your hand to answer number five, and the teacher calls on you. You raise your hand to answer number six, number seven, then eight, and then nine. And the teacher asks you to give someone else a chance. The teacher asks, “Who knows number ten?” You keep quiet, and the teacher says, “No one knows number ten?” And all the kids say, “Carlos does!” And the teacher asks, “Carlos what’s number ten?”

You answer, and everyone sneers and rolls their eyes at you. You feel ashamed, and all you want to say is that it’s not your fault.

Now, you think that, maybe, it was conditioning, maybe you’ve been programmed. “Teacher, teacher, I’m your slave, a pet.” You always played along in school.

After years of waiting, you get your college degree in the mail. Soon, everyone will expect you to get a job, not the summer type, but the career kind.

Go online, send out resumes, apply for internships, check out grad schools, America Reads, Teach for America. You’re not ready for the real world.

You wish the real world were a worksheet you had all the answers for before everyone else.

And you wonder what the fuck you’re going to do with yourself today.

Remember high school, and your geometry teacher is standing over you while you take a test to ensure that you don’t copy from the Asian student sitting next to you.

You finish ten minutes before anyone else, and when the teacher passes back the test you get a 95. The student next to you an 86, but the teacher still stands over you anytime there’s a test for the rest of the year.

You learn to despise geometry and math.

And then you’re sitting in college in some Poli-Sci class, and the professor asks, “Carlos can you give us a Latino point of view?” All your classmates wait to listen to you because they think they’re hearing the voice of the streets, and your speech becomes so urban, and you start saying things like, “know what I’m sayin’,” and “for real yo”. You’re such a thug to them, and at home, in your apartment, you read Nietzsche for fun. One day your professor asks if you could curtail your language, and you just laugh inside. Sure you say, but wonder why ‘cause everyone else curses in the class.

But still you give your “Latino” point of view. In your head you think, I don’t know what the fuck every Latino thinks, and I don’t want to be a representative for a whole people.

But now it’s all done. After years of waiting. Years of waiting. Years of waiting. After years of waiting.

Nothing happens.

Nothing happens.

Soon the whole world will begin to pressure you to become like them, insignificant.

You take out your degree from the envelope and

well

that’s it.

Nothing happens, and you don’t want the rest of your life to be like that. You tell yourself that you cannot let yourself fall into a trap: school, work, and then you die.

What the fuck are you going to do today? What the fuck are you going to do tomorrow, and what will you be doing for the rest of your life?

You have a degree in graphic communications, but you don’t want to sell anything.

“There’s no point,” you start to think. Living in Chicago, nothing matters. And you want to leave because

after years of waiting

nothing happens.

And you start singing, “I’m a reasonable man get off my back, get off my back, get off my back.”

blank.

blank.

i’m not the only one
weapon of,
dedicated to,
in the name of the
_____________blank.
but not in my
name of the
_____________blank.
check the i.d.
i’m not the only one,
anonymous,
often lost amongst the mist
a
_____________blank
message w/out sender.
no one remembers my
_____________blank.
_____________blank, _____________blank, _____________blank
when the gun went off
into the sky.
i’m not the only one,
_____________blank,
anonymous.
i’m not the only one,
_____________blank,
anonymous.
_____________blank,
anonymous.

10.24.05.

lefty.

lefty.

left handed piece for the broken right.
go in reverse.
go in reverse
to curse the verse.
which is worse,
we are stuck
here on earth
w/ out wings to fly,
or an imagination
to escape.

so i start asking questions,
and then my brain starts
to wander off
into the night
cause this is just a
left handed piece for the broken right.

and i’m not afraid to dream.
and i’m not afraid to sleep.
left handed piece for the broken right
cause i am not like you.

yes,
we will all just become
someone else’s memories,
but so then tell me
what were we before?
(because what is
the standard of reality?)

please, an island.
find me an island
to wander off
into the night.
cause this is just a
left handed piece for the broken right.

we sing our songs
to remember the worlds
inside of our minds.
how i hope
that this wasn’t for real,
but i fear that it is.

the universe scattered fragments
of which we are all pieces of
which don’t make sense,
so why not then
just go.
go in reverse. go in reverse.
and what is worse
feeling cursed
like we are stuck
here on earth
w/ out (any) wings to fly,
or an
imagination
to escape.

so i start asking questions,
and then my brain starts
to wander off
into the night
cause this is just a
left handed piece for the broken right.

07.05.

i’m sorry my dear.

i’m sorry my dear.

my move
-ments
in mo-
ments
lose
pur(r)-
pose [lik(e) a
mo-
del’s smile].
i am trying
(that’s my ex
-cuse)
2b sin
-cere, but all
the noise and the
static of things
keep creep
-ing in.
i’ve often wandered.
i’ve often wondered
how 1 does it
? s)tick(s 2 1’s
princ
-i-
ples. please
my dear,
i am sorry.
4 not k(no)wing
how 2b a
hu- (or)
man
be)ing.
please my dear,
hand me a copy
of the set of
instructions
on how 2b a
hu- morless
be(ing.

01.09.05.

existentialist moment.

existentialist moment.

be boy.
be girl.
be good. be good.

i’m so afraid of making mis/takes,
of falling
short of what’s expected-
what i’m expecting from
the world.

because beauty
is
bountiful, but barriers border,

therefore impeding

being. being babbling backward babylon’s

ancient rhetoric

banishing balance, but banking

on the people’s brand of ignorance,
lack of free will,
and our plain idleness.

barbaric bohemian baptisms bankrupt before bailing
out
brainwashed barbed bantlings breaking 2 beats.

when will our existentialist moment come?
when will our existentialist moment come?

b boy. boy just b. b boy. boy just b.

when will our existentialist moment come?
when will our existentialist moment come?

i’m not on a different planet
and i 2 need oxygen (o) 2 breathe.
“please, share your air (h2o) with me/eeee!”
is what the children will plead
on the $treet$ from the rich.
and i’m not a communi$t,

but
mostly, i just want to
be,
mostly, i just want to, mostly,
i just want.

when will our existentialist moment come?
when will our existentialist moment come?

this is not a dream.
you are al/one in the quest for self.
no one cares much about u as u,
but we are
not alone
because we all
share the planet,
and we all need oxygen to breathe.

when will our existentialist moment come?
when will our existentialist moment come?

12.02.04.

the poetry of children.

the poetry of children.

breaking schemas
and
the molding of tomorrow’s youth
into plastic soldiers
with replaceable, interchangeable personalities,
guns, and names.
marching away into the eve
of tomorrow’s dawn,
our
children’s poetry
will be
bullets and gunshots ricocheting off the walls
that once supported dreams.

left trying to decipher,
marks on the wall,
messages in graffiti,
if there was ever any
meaning.
cavemen left their marks on walls,
but these new scars relate misguided, disenchanted,
disenfranchised urban youth, revenge on the concrete
built on superficial ideals,
wasted energy, fading hope, and savage inequalities.

historians will remain in awe
at stains of blood,
of murder filled books juxtaposed with fairy tales.
and these stories are yet to be recorded and written.
depending on who dictates the future,
and how much everyone’s allowed to know,
they may never get written.

thus the
children’s poetry
must not fall on
or off
deaf ears,
so that deviant behavior and memory
will continue to remind
history,
and perhaps the whole conscious
of present society,
of those ignored, gentrified, and pushed to the outskirts
until permeating the psyche.
being that truth cannot be
hidden or buried,
children’s poetry
will come out beating
to rhythms the color of love
that most people have already long forgotten.
beatings and rhythms,
washing out
the bitterness the present has left us.
or maybe it’s just me that keeps hearing
the same thing,
the same song
that everyone’s been singing.
all the radio’s been playing.
dewey would argue what the schools have been teaching
for centuries since the romans and greeks,
or what corporate entities dictate through promoting.

because
nobody’s been listening,
nobody is listening,
nobody is listening
to the
children’s poetry.

cause what could they possibly teach anybody?

the
children’s poetry,
strange mutterings,
frequencies,
but transmissions
have had a tendency of being
intercepted,
and thus the message has yet to be
fully understood.
but children still believe in poetry.
translating messages for history,
some must start then decoding these writings and movements
before an eternal silence befalls us all.
trying to figure
children’s poetry,
already hiding in alleys,
break dancing, and drawing on walls.
trained to be just like little adults.
learning quickly to bully and scheme,
how to politic and maneuver,
aaaarrrggghhhhh.
next comes the nervous breakdown.
screaming, shouting, shooting in schools.

wait.
it’s already happening.
wait.

because
nobody’s been listening,
nobody is listening,
nobody is listening
to the
children’s poetry.

listening to the static off the vinyl
interwoven into the grooves
until foundations come down crumbling
off the bass
from the
children’s poetry.
yelling to be recognized
as a single living identity, entity,
independent of society’s standards and schemas
of how children are supposed to be.
the whole of society seems bent and content with silencing
what echoes tremble in the voice of
children’s poetry.
dancing, running, playing, exploring, discovering
without guides, barriers, or grown ups
at peace to develop like haiku:

the child once had thoughts
till order became borders
the child could not cross.

the child still has dreams,
but rules are raised up like walls.
free the child in me.

please.

free the child in me.
please. free the child in me. please.
free the child in me.

free the child in me.
please. free the child in me. please.
free the child in me.

9.24.04.