advanced training academy; passing notes and poems

this is from the same workshop as the previous writing. this started with a conversation between a good friend of mine and i and ended with an actual performance of the poem at the bottom

conversation participant 1:

My first impression of you has changed.

Several minutes later he says:

someone mislabeled the warm up; i know i’m not getting paid enough for a s****y impromptu open mic.

participant 2:

Don’t you know this is what happens when you put a mic in front of black people

1:

every sonovabitch who first raised their hand was a the classic "camera hog" type.  i need to in-kind a gun, this is my "dragon to slay."

Five minutes previous the discussion leader had asked us to:

write a poem incorporating food, customs, words, and a geographic location that was key to your childhood, as though you are still a child

So i write:

oh i sayeth much of the wonders of these little kernels,

the color of the yellow part of the bumblebees, bursting with intense flavor, supplemented with noodles, shiny with butter, the kind of noodles that are little tubes, with ridges on the side, because that’s my favorite kind, preferably al dente.  and some steak.  hopefully still bleeding.

i live with my mom and my grandma.  they have this custom that i’m supposed to wash my hands before i eat and after i piss, but i’m a dirty kid.  i have a tree i like to climb, it leans over my neighbor’s yard.  there’s also a weeping willow.  little do i know, a few years after this moment of childness, people from Canada will come and buy the house, paint it army green, and cut down that willow tree.  and those yellow flowery bushes, and that giant bush with the things we used to throw at each other because my mom wouldn’t let us play with guns.  but the tree over my neighbor’s yard is safe, as far as i know.  once i got called to the principal’s office and i got sick of sitting there, and i ran all the way home and climbed up that tree, and no matter how much she yelled, she couldn’t get me down.  that tree was safe.

words are superfluous (Russ, how do you say it? Super Flu Us) as is this exercise.  However, the most common one was my name, yelled in an angry tone, so much so that it was my baby sister’s first word.

My Dad’s dad was famous in Haiti... he was the personal adviser to a Despotic Ruler.  now my grandma lives in Port au Prince, in a filthy hovel, surrounded by dirt

Author's Note

in the second to last stanza the parenthesis represent me mispronouncing the word superfluous and calling down from the stage for clarification. also, i am participant 2 in the conversation in the start of the poem. i am not racist, i'm black, and was being sarcastic. and 'in-kind' is a way to say 'get donations.' the dragon to slay comment is a reference to the questions we had been asked earlier in the day, which sparked the previous poem on my page 'reflections from a disappearing mirror'

Reviews

[masie]

"no matter how much she yelled, she couldn't get me down. that tree was safe."
i really like that line.... i know how that is...
having a favorite tree... escaping into it as a kid and you feel like no matter what this tree will keep me safe..
no one can get it.. well no adult can get you... adults get old and lose their funness and childness... its what keeps the innocent pure and happy...its what makes trees and rocks and nature fun...
i wish i was still like this.
im sorry your tree was cut down =[