From Sensei Lael:
vomit in the hall--
are those cheetos, or some strange
new stomach disease?
I pop the cap and
take a big whiff: is that mint
or the smell of death?
industrial-strength
cleaners: good for the body,
the mind, and the soul.
the great orbital
buffer whines, wanders about
the hallway. bad pet.
scuff marks on my floor:
damn rubber heels. gulls return
to shit the beach green.
I got the pine-sol
blues; the smell cloys: stinky gym
socks, grey locker funk.
guidance counselor:
no one knows--it's our secret--
she wrings my mop dry.
the scent of pine--its
spirit fills the hallways, drives
out the human stench
the mop sloshes bright
green fluid all over: god,
devil? No: random.
the floor buffer turns,
orbits like Copernicus'
universe: wax on
in the boiler room
I take my rest; crickets croak:
ham on rye again?
bad bulb, broken desk--
how many janitors does
it take to get screwed?
my grey uniform:
stenciled name, a little loop
for all my damn keys
principal's broken
desk: his squeaky chair: shove it
up your chalk-dry ass
a mop is a thing
of beauty: no matter how
you wring it, it lives
the trash barrels are
heavy today: mad students
throw away hard work
what I find in the
lockers after the school year
could start museum
|
From Sensei Kathleen:
hello yellow stain
why can't these boys ever hit
the damn urinal?
without me the mass,
the wave of unending mess
will overtake them
I push the broom hard
in the dark I press it close
respect from my love
i could have been a
great scientist or some shit
fuck that stupid math
my girl, she left me
for a valet--damn it, boys
no running out here!
those snooty teachers
are getting what they deserve
out on their asses
the secret to clean
is industrial-strength shit
that burns and rends flesh
religion exists
in the broom--cleanliness is
next to godliness
if I wash this wall
tender as a lover's back
pure white flesh shines through
the polished glass orb
of outdoor lighting answers
back to him: wax off
in the boiler room
3 o'clock, I meet my love
she brings her whistle
one to hold the bulb
and six to scrape together
cash for the hooker
i sit like buddha
no tree, under the back stairs
with a cigarette
with careful hiding
one can spend all day doing
the art of nothing
the mop speaks to me
in the language of water
soapy and impure
I know not why gum
chooses to gather in dark
cowers from scraper
what I find in the
corners of the teacher's lounge
sells at Priscilla's |
