Tuesday, May 24, 2016

May 24


2 comments:

  1. Latin
    Translating Virgil
    I sing of arms and the man
    I had loved Latin the year before our
    Teacher was Mrs. Bennette and she was married to a blind
    Guy who was a genius piano player and an advocate for sightless
    People. She taught us Caesar and Ovid — I think — but then we got the German Latin
    Teacher. Miss Von Heerman — I realize now she was yet another dispossessed aristocrat —Von
    Is like de in French — and we had a ton of these teachers at our school, so maybe she was pissed off because
    Hitler had like taken her Shloss or her Palast or something (she for sure wasn’t jewish), and she was one of those falsely
    Cheerful teachers who acted like she believed in you, but really thought you were stupid. Reading Virgin was misery and poor
    Dido — I felt for her. I was ready to kill myself too just to get out of going to that class, but I hated most of my classes it’s just that Latin
    Was worse because I had loved it before. Learned all those fun phrases. Rara Avis means rare bird and cool stuff like that. They say misery
    Makes you stronger, but I think it just makes you miserable. A slog you survive. Arma virumque cano. I sing. I sing. Despite Virgil and her.

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  2. My imperfections

    My mom
    She was having a feud
    With the neighbor next door
    Like always, because it was in her blood

    To piss people off and to make things right
    We were playing frisbee and it flew into their
    Yard, they confiscated it, so my mom took the
    Big wheel out of their drive way and was

    Apprehended
    By the old lady and her daughter
    Tearing her apart limb by limb
    Stretching her until she yelled
    “Daryl”

    I went into action and used my baseball mitt
    On the old lady and said, “Let go of my mom”
    She pushed me aside as I fell down to the street
    Crying as she stopped what she was doing

    Because it had gone too far
    And she exclaimed to my mom
    “You always expect him to be perfect”
    My mom denied it

    But I remember later, she told me it was true
    She always expects me to be perfect
    That is why I cry and can’t measure up
    To being perfect

    My therapist told me at ten years of age
    Why don’t you try to get a “B” instead?
    Of an “A” and you will not wet your bed
    Oh, I think he was right. Now l know.

    The pressure of a boy growing up trying
    To measure up to be a man
    And never being able to accomplish
    Really put too much pressure on me

    As a boy in a man’s world a mom with a son
    Who never could replace his divorced father?
    Never to be the man he was

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