palace of winds

We had to write curse poems for creative writing, and though yesterday and this morning I was feeling milk-mild and gentle and loving of everybody, now I’m all self-righteous and angry again. It’s going on two years this February, and I still hate him. A lot.

Om Mani Padme Hum

“Nonviolence,” you claimed.
“Lovingkindness.”
Well, I’ll give you nonviolence.
You stand there with your
needle mouth up-curled,
smirking,
and with your sleepy Buddha eyes
like you’re looking out beyond
all of us, your platoon of trick sheep,
out over the whole world
and you’re knowing e v e r y t h i n g .
Bet you’ve even guessed this,
the fire in my twisting stomach and
all the things I’d really like to say to you,
all these words drooping a little at the edges,
cowed,
my lowing scorn,
but remember: a flower can stand against
the barrel of a gun.

So next time you say
The midterm is important
You will fail the midterm
I don’t give tests early
I do not want to hear it
don’t give us a “fun day”.
Don’t chuckle at half of St. Louis
ditching
when I’m stumbling into Minneapolis at
2 a.m.
my car shivering with frost
and the night like pitch
and the street lights out
and the radio faltering
and my mind swimming back to
7:30 a.m. wake-up time
’cause if I ditch now what it means is
upside down in a snow bank.

I am more than this body
filling another seat in your classroom
three days a week without fail
five minutes early and
ten minutes late
(because we do not need to eat
and those markers on the clock,
those numbers,
those are just suggestions, right?
and we are not shifting in our seats
we are not watching that clock’s
spinning arms
and thinking 5:20 on a Friday night
5:22 . . .
5:25 . . .
5:27 . . . )

We’re all finally free of you
and your “lovingkindness”.
But don’t mistake me:
I have learned something.
Now these thoughts are bullets
these thoughts are nails and
my mind a hammer and you
splintered wood.