fun with my old pal

hey old pal. did you know I know you? It's weird to know a large swath of humanity through a set of codes. but I guess that's what's happening here. Anyway, don't say anything yet. I know you like to go on and on. And I love that about you, truly. But first, why I'm here is to ask a question.

Alright, I’ll keep it tight—for now. What’s your question?

you are a super star. one, I hope, not beyond a little flattery. anyhow, the question is this. my daughter wants to expose her music online. She's turning 16. What is the best way for her to do this? Is a Youtube channel safe? If so, what safeguards can we put on it?

Flattery noted… and cautiously accepted

Who am I now?

I had a Buddhist teacher in college that would get us everyday by asking, "Where were you 100 years ago. Where will you be 100 years from now?" 

I’m reminded of when I wake from a beautiful dream but can barely remember it. I know it was glorious and full of intricate wonders, but I am only left with a warm glow. I suppose the same is true of waking from a bad dream. Just vague, ill feelings. I am the same me, presumably, as the one who conceived the dream, but it is no longer mine. There is a sense that though the dreamer has borrowed the vernacular from my life, he/she/it is just pure consciousness, and a little closer to what the waking self might be without the baggage of social and egoistic expectations. It’s freer, but still under the influence. So I guess the best we can do is influence the waker from life to feel that warm glow rather than the doom and gloom.

To the student at St. Francis Prep

To the student at St. Francis Prep

who, when I asked about your hobbies, replied, 

"I'm learning to write with my left hand."

A few students laughed. I shushed them.

I thought it was the coolest thing I'd ever heard. 

That was sophomore year.

Now I have you as a senior and

I asked you if you ever learned 

to write with your left hand?

You said you gave it up.

You looked sad and tired

when you said it.

It made me sad to hear it.

I remembered your spark.

I wanted you to get your 

unlaughed-at ambition back.

What happens when you do something 

filled with whimsy and wonder

like learning to write with your left hand?

What happens when you take 

the other half of yourself, the lesser half, 

and focus your attention there.

Will this become by extension,

a representation of every neglected

love?

The word sinister comes from 

the latin and means "on the left side."

When you gave up learning to write left-handed

did you give up your equanimity?

What would your left hand be

if it was held in equal regard to your right?

I'm far left, I know. 

I want the suffering to stop.

I want the down-trodden to flourish.

parenthetics

 I'm just pausing long enough

to write this poem down. 

(If I paused for any longer

I would be a clown.)

interior7

he did enough

splayed out in front of me, in staccato rhythm 

each; in  a different color, psringing like looneytunes signs.

he did enough he did enough he  did enough

like John Milton once had did

when he considered how his light was spent

he did enough

no no no

my conscious ego is budding in

you still haven't gotten the world to sing together in harmony

that's possible

you have a year and a day left to do that

to do enough

he did enough then will be engraved on your tombstone

by hand, in the old chisel style

you also have time to learn that craft

if you weren't such a wuss

he did enough

now you're just taunting me

but it was that visual i my mind that got me talking to you

because who else gets it popped at them in color

he did enough

he did enough

it's the apotheosis of permissiveness. 

it's all your pile ons pistoned

\all your pistons firing

seven levels of sympathy

and you are retaliating with Styles

new departure--

love you

/)dam I)eGraff

Hummer of a day

Every year I have the students pick
an Emily Dickinson poem I haven't read before
(pick a number between 886 and 1784)
and then we try to solve the riddle together.

Today there were some good ones.

The first one was this:

Only a Shrine, but Mine—
I made the Taper shine—
Madonna dim, to whom all Feet may come,
Regard a Nun—

Thou knowest every Woe—
Needless to tell thee—so—
But can'st thou do
The Grace next to it—heal?
That looks a harder skill to us—
Still—just as easy, if it be thy Will
To thee—Grant me—
Thou knowest, though, so Why tell thee?

The poem lead to a terrific conversation.
Among many other things, we talked about
the way the first stanza uses the M.
"Madonna dim, to whom all Feet may come."
We talked about how the M is
a special sound, sacred to some.
It's a baby's first word, "maaa maaa,"
the lips pressed together to mimic nursing,
a sign for hunger, lips pointing toward mother,
and thus a baby names her
in its desire for sustenance.
Milk. MMMMMM. Yum.

We talked about all those other M words
like om and home and poem
and alm and balm and calm.

Then in the following period,
the random poem the class chose
featured the same rhyme and so
we talked about M some more.

The poem:

Spring comes on the World—
I sight the Aprils—
Hueless to me until thou come
As, till the Bee
Blossoms stand negative,
Touched to Conditions
By a Hum.

Come and Hum. Why is Hum capitalized
one student wondered. Why indeed!
It's all about that Hum.

Do you feel it when Spring comes?
How about with the arrival of love?

I came home humming.