My grandmother was a bitch.

A fussy old bigot, she
loved to add vodka to her Sprite.
Or was it the other way around…

She never gave my grandfather a break,
there was always something.
And, when he started to lose his mind,
she complained to everyone,
right in front of him,
how he was no longer a man.

I knew the stories from my father,
how he grew up hard;
the Depression cost him brothers, sisters,
his mother.
His stepmother–
another crazy bitch
–chased him with an axe,
tried to kill him.
So he went off and started life.

He never complained.

I heard from my mother
how he gave up the chance to play in big bands
to marry my grandmother–
gave up the chance to travel,
to see the country,
maybe even see the world.

Still, he saw what he wanted to see.
He traveled the country with his family,
taking them all over
in a truck he made into a camper,
before they returned home
to the house he built for them.

I never knew if my grandmother gave anything up
to be with him.
If there was anything she had seen
or wanted to see.
These stories,
if they existed,
never got told.
I only knew that she used to be a great cook,
before she decided that she didn’t care anymore.
I knew that everything she made came with
a thick layer of grease on the surface,
like some kind of protest.
And that she made time every day to feed the stray cats
that she swore were nuisances.
Constantly ordering from catalogues,
so she’d always have something to look forward to.

Bitches,
martyrs,
we all get to see what we want to see.

Why don’t you think you were able to write anything?

it just didn’t happen.  i looked at the screen- on my phone, on my computer – and i couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

Does this happen often to you when you write?

no.  usually i just start writing.  although i usually don’t necessarily sit down and force myself to write about such a specific thing.  usually, if i don’t have an idea, i’ll just start doing something else, and then i figure out what i want to talk about once i start writing.

And you couldn’t do that this time?

well, you wanted me to talk to ‘myself’ after the spelling bee when i was like nine or ten.  it’s a pretty specific goal.

Did you try to write about something else?  To get yourself going?

yes, actually.  although, it doesn’t work like that.  usually, if i start writing something, it leads me to a different place.  i don’t necessarily try to control where i go with it, so it wouldn’t have helped, necessarily to try to talk about something else as a way to get back to this thing i was supposed to write about.  but, yeah, i did write something else.  i wrote a couple dialogues between you and i.  first, about you asking me to write a dialogue between myself now and myself then, and then also one where we talked about how i wasn’t able to do it.  lol.

How very meta.

“dialogue dialogue dialogue.”

What did we say during this conversation?

it was just exactly like this, actually.  except your breasts were bigger.

What was my reaction to your ‘failure’?

they were just like pow!

I understand.  You’re doing the thing where you avoid answering my question, though.

you asked me why i wasn’t able to talk to myself and be supportive in the same way i can for xoxo or my students.

What did you say?

i left it hanging at that moment, just ended it with one of these dumbass galaxy images i like to use.  like i’m deep or something.

I know you’re trying to be cute, “ironically” joking about my breasts, but it isn’t cute or clever.  It’s not cool at all, and I know you know that.  It’s immature and disrespectful, and you wouldn’t even think of saying that to me in real life.

i know.

Pow.

Caught up in my thoughts, what’s really real and what is not
Critiquing fake-booty thots and toxic avengers who just lay down and rot
The ones that scream so loud that it starts to sound like screams are all they got
And real ones in real pain whose screams get drowned out by gunshots
And what do I got?
A wrong-headed sense of righteousness that I hope gets ladies hot?
Some expensive Japanese sneakers and coordinated socks?
Encyclopedic knowledge of battles against injustice fought?
It’s not my life that’s on the line, my blood don’t got to clot
But I still need you to pay attention while I tie myself in knots
While I rage against some machine and expose their racist plots
Partying hard for the right to fight of everyone who I am not
So when I sing ‘Get up, Stand up,’ it’s more to make the spot hot
No half-steppin, girl- get the fuck up and show the world what you got
We’ll burn shit down, don’t listen to the haters or Russian bots
It’s on us
We got to step up now, before things get any worse
I’m ready to throw my weight around—
But I do got to lose a couple of pounds first (lol)

yeah, i mean i don’t know if this is still controversial or whatever, but I just really think Yoko is really cool and I mean, really she always was, and it’s ridiculous that she got so much shit for so long (and really still does, even though i don’t think it’s like it used to be, since people are more ‘woke’ now or whatever) just because we’re threatened and don’t know what to do when a woman is smart and forthright and shit— as though they’re standing up for John Lennon, because obviously HE had a problem with strong women  —and what’s sad is i bet if she was more visible she’d get just as much shit as in the past (from people like the fucking MAGA jerkoffs) but i’d like to think there would would be more voices speaking in support of her, since so many fools are ‘woke’ now, and i don’t know, i guess it doesn’t matter, just my thoughts, and i’m 1,000,000% Team Yoko. it just feels like it’s important that i say that and that my support is made clear.

oh…i thought you mentioned her.  well anyway, it’s my opinion.

give me an example of something that happens when you’re teaching.

i don’t think that the thoughts i have are that out of the ordinary.  i mean, i think most people get nervous and uncomfortable teaching.

you’re absolutely right.  it’s a scary thing for almost everyone, standing up in front of other people and being the center of attention.

and you know that none of them even want to be there.

what do you mean?

the class.  no one wants to be in freshman comp.  it’s writing.  they wouldn’t take if they didn’t have to.

can you be sure of that, though?

yes, everyone hates writing class. it doesn’t have anything to do with the teacher, it’s the class.

ah, okay.  that just sounded like something you might tell yourself- that they all hate the class because of you.

no, not that.

okay, then.

i mean, i’m sure i’m not helping matters any, but-

why is it necessary to say that?  you literally just said it’s the class and not you.  can’t it just be that the class itself is objectionable?  why even include yourself in their negative thoughts?

 i’m part of the package, right?

so are other teachers, though.

yeah, they probably hate them, too, but i don’t got time to worry bout that.

but you have time and energy to think about yourself as being especially terrible and hateable

i am at the center of most earthly entanglements.

anyway, tell me about what kinds of thoughts you have when you’re standing up there in front of the class.

a lot of times it’s totally fine, because i’m so caught up trying to explain things or respond to whateverwhatever that i don’t have, like, the time to dwell on those kinds of thoughts.

that’s good.  but what about times when those thoughts do creep in?

before class starts, definitely.

before class?

when you’re sitting there in the room waiting for class to start and they’re coming in.  it’s really uncomfortable, because, sometimes they talk to each other or maybe have questions for you, but a lot of times everyone just sits there silent.  just a room full of people sitting and not talking to each other, looking at their phones.  really, it depends on the class.  some are very talkative, but others aren’t.

the ones that don’t talk- do you think they’re uncomfortable?

maybe.  sometimes someone will say something to break the silence.

to you?

or to each other. usually to each other.

do you want them to talk to you?

i mean, if they need to, then of course. it’s my job.

oh, like if they have questions about something from the class?

yeah.

but what about when they’re just chatting with each other in a friendly way- do you want them to talk to you then?

i’m-

what i mean is, do you feel left out? do you want to be included in their conversations?

why would i be included in their conversations? i’m the teacher, i’m like twice their age. it would be weird if they wanted me to be part of their discussions about their lives.

not necessarily. but also, that’s not the question i asked- i asked if you wanted to be included.

it’s not relevant, though. by the nature of the situation, i’m unlike everyone else in the room. i run the conversation once class starts- we only talk about what i decide we’re going to talk about, and i even decide who talks, when they talk, and who they talk to. it would be ridiculous if i also wanted to control their conversations outside of that one-hundred and fifty minutes each week.

it’s not about you ‘controlling’ anything. i’m just asking- do you want to be included in their conversations?

they don’t even always talk to each other before class.

do you wish they did?

um, i guess it would be nice, just because of they’re talking to start it’s more likely they’ll keep talking during class.

do you want to be included in those conversations?

well, i guess it-

nothing to do with how it would benefit class, just as a person: do you wish they included you in their conversations?

…

it’s not weird at all if your answer is yes, you know. would it be be embarrassing to you if the answer to my question is yes?

…

what i’m hearing right now is your tendency to cast every single emotion or need you have as invalid. just be honest- would you like to be included in your students’ conversations-when they have them -before class.

it’s just not something that is necessary, even if it’s not weird. i don’t need to be their friend. i’m their teacher.

it’s not like it’s inappropriate, though. and i’m not even talking about being ‘friends’ with them, i’m just talking about having a friendly conversation with them. if you say yes, it doesn’t mean you’re defective. why don’t you want to answer this question?

it just doesn’t make sense. my goal shouldn’t be to be their good buddy.

do you want to be included in their conversations?

whenever i do talk to them, it often ends up bleeding into class time, anyway. so it’s problematic for that reason, too.  because i do get caught up in silly conversations way too easy, and it wastes too much class time already.

do you want them to include you in their conversations?

i already worry that i’m overly concerned with being the ‘cool teacher.’  it’s a trap that’s too easy for me to fall into.

Assignment:
failure

Purpose:
common demands, to some extent
lenses
of power and powerlessness

Your purpose is to carefully possess
the story, the
interrogation of this
and/or
world

You might consider
political philosophy,
unfamiliar situations,
kinds of limitations,
societal structures strengthened,
any group disenfranchised;
negative effects?

I will look for Malcolm X,
and you should:
elaborate
using the body
the details
of your life,
careful to provide appropriate context and explanation for any potentially unfamiliar terms, concepts, or references.

My hand leaves red marks
on your leg.
I hate to see them fade and disappear, so
I better
grab you harder this time, hold you
tighter, longer.
I don’t want it to stay forever,
just a little bit longer.
If you can forget,
it’s not worth remembering.

(Maybe this is why
I never find myself attracted to
black women-
all the marks left on them are
invisible.)

I’ll take whatever you’re selling
as long as you’re offering yourself up.
Nothing is worthless.
I’ll cover my whole self
in your shit,
from head to toe,
even if it makes me sick.

This is my desire,
is your sex,
our love.
What do you have left for me?

A man lives across the hall from me,
alone.
He gets three different newspapers delivered
every morning.
I come home and look up to see his blinds,
always open.

His wife left him almost a year ago.
She discovered he wrote letters to women,
asked them to defecate in plastic containers,
paid them to send it
Priority Mail.

Hurt, confused, enraged;
you could hear her screaming across the hall.
He didn’t say a word,
that I could hear.
I saw her leaving two days later.
I didn’t look her in the eye.

Before she left,
out of shame and spite,
she told the whole building.
Anyone who would listen.
I imagined how people would respond to her,
what kind of support and understanding
might be offered.
But I avoided making eye contact.

Alone in his apartment, he exists mostly
in our imaginations.
He comes and goes and never looks anyone
in the eye.
He knows.
Everyone knows.
But no one ever says a word.
People have feelings-
they need to be protected.

A woman noticed a small section of embroidery in the middle of the wall in her bedroom. It was too small to make out any pattern, so she decided to leave it alone. To see what developed. Days passed and she forgot about it. One night, she noticed it had grown to the point that it now covered her light switch, but she still paid it no mind. The light switch really wasn’t very important to her. Finally, one night she saw it suddenly. She found herself, all at once surrounded by embroidery. Violent green and suffocating red, everywhere she turned. She began tearing the strands out of the wall as fast as she could, but the more she pulled the more she herself became tied up in them. White, navy blue, mustard yellow. She was drowning in anger, obliviousness. Her husband called to her from another room.