Gunslinger 101
Recent school shootings
have prompted some
otherwise normal
citizens
to urge school officials
to encourage and force
thoughtful classroom
teachers
to arm themselves and
defend their classroom,
seemingly a half-baked
idea.
Should an intruder,
bent on destruction,
burst into a
classroom,
amid, say, a dull
lesson on Grammar,
(verb tenses for
instance)
the teacher, holstered,
calm and brave,
like Billy The
Kid,
who’d murdered
a few surprised folks,
but caught a bullet
himself.
The teacher would
try
to protect his students,
from great
harm.
I can see it now—
the desperate shooter,
shielded behind a
wriggling
armful of Jennifer,
while wildly
reducing the
blackboard
to shredded chips
of powdered rubble
with an AK47
gizmo.
Meanwhile, I’m
patiently waiting
to get a clear
shot
just above
Jennifer’s shoulder,
without grazing her
ear,
all the while wishing
I had rigged up
a few IEDs near the
doorway
so he could
experience firsthand
the finality of
smithereens.
Despite my lack
of Seal Team training,
I rued the obvious
fact
I had neglected to
string up
a few strands of barbed
wire
to hold him at bay
while I rummaged
for a spare
grenade,
but I didn’t dare take
my eyes off him for fear
he might touch Jennifer
improperly.
My best option seemed
to be to let him blaze
through endless rounds of
ammo,
until the local Swat Team
could swoop in,
riddle me with
bullets,
arrest the shooter,
rescue Jennifer,
and ask questions
later.
. . . j
Saucy Pretty
Regarding matters of
my childhood—
in particular
my school’s primary
report card—
which made
sinful distinctions
between
Excellent,
Needs Improvement
And
Satisfactory Progress.
It would not surprise
me much, if your
school had a similar
grading system.
At age six, I,
an untamed boy
sporting a world class
cowlick,
and unfamiliar
with the rules
of polite society,
Was graded,
Needs Improvement,
in matters of
Plays well with others.
“Needs improvement?”
Bloody hell?
Was that the best
Miss Throttle’s
heart could muster?
With sisters like mine,
the fact I wasn’t up for
Murder One
was just short
of a miracle.
Needs Improvement ?
Your honor,
My honor has been
sullied
for defending myself
in the sandbox,
Friday last,
from the uncivilized
advances of one
Saucy Pretty,
queen of the
Monkey Bars,
a classmate,
who grabbed
me by the throat and
attempted to kiss me
until I pushed a small
handful, perhaps ten
thousand grains at most
of sand into her
puckered mouth?
For that my
near perfect
attendance goes
unheralded?
For that it is forgotten
that I alone was the
only boy left standing
against nine girls
in our first
Spelling Bee?
Plays Well With Others?
What kind of made up
Cockamamie evaluation
category is that?
I’m working my head off
memorizing
the alphabet and
state names and
learning how to
line up for recess,
and I get
dinged with such a
frivolous mark as
Needs Improvement
for
PlaysWell With Others
when the girls are
hanging upside down on
the monkey bars,
dresses over their heads,
bare knees showing?
Give me a break!
from the Senses and More Such collection
. . . j
Would I could,
I’d spread my wings
Oh, let it be.
Across the sky,
A roof of sorts,
Oh, let it be.
To shield
America’s Children
Oh, let it be.
From gun violence
And the lawmakers
Who would allow it.
Oh, let it be.
from the Senses and More Such collection
. . . j
Uncertainty
I cannot see my ship over the horizon
No matter shining sails or mast’s towering height.
Unseen then, how am I to know it’s the right one?
My eyes strain ever in darkness to catch the light.
I lean the platform for the late train round the bend
Indistinct sounds will tantalize yet fool my ear.
Who knows for sure the engine late or early, send?
Schedules do little to alleviate my fear.
The day after my last breath on earth is taken.
The morning’s dawn comes as usual, but not for me.
Have I, in my slender faith, been true forsaken?
The while my life spent with eyes unable to see?
from the Senses and More Such collection
. . . j
Rain
Rain
*
h e r ordinary Tue
t s
a d
r a
A - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - y
i
n
S
e
a
t
t e
l
ile mud puddles gleefully
h : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : h.
w : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : t
plot and gather dep
from the Senses and More Such collection
. . . j
Accused
Once the facts—
presented as
evidence mind you—
the DNA,
the trail of bloody footprints,
the cell phone pings,
the blood spatter analysis,
the suspect weapon,
and the lame alibies
of the husband,
the former boyfriends,
the deranged work colleague,
and the mysterious stranger
have been gathered,
and verified, or not,
and sifted,
like Murderer’s Flour,
examined minutely,
microscopically,
there remains
but one more
step to take.
Someone needs
to be blamed.
from the Senses and More Such collection
. . . j
Am I Pretty?
Oh, Mama, that's not what I mean.
What I mean is: am I pretty?
I've already told you, yes.
Now that's enough of that.
You have a nice young pretty face.
I never heard of such foolishness.
But, Mama, you've got to say something about me.
Am I pretty enough.to get anybody...
to get people interested in me?
Emily, you make me tired. Now stop it.
You're pretty enough for all normal purposes
Oh, Mama, you're no help at all.
from "Our Town" by Thornton Wilder
. . . j
Down Under
Kindness is
a boomerang,
carried off
on the currents
of a shy smile,
a helping hand,
a pleasant word
of greeting,
encouragement,
and praise.
In its returning
arc,
seeking
out whence
it came,
it gathers
kindness to
itself as a
gift
invested,
and returned
with interest.
. . . j
j's blog 