My BFF Squinny made me real. Not sure how but she did. Not sure why but she said don’t ask cause I won’t tell. Not sure if I’ll last but she said nothing lasts forever. Not even Santa or our relationship, she said, will last forever ever. I figulated that since Squinny rose from the dead she must be smart and can probably make me real. I imagine anything is possible when I’m with Squinny. That’s why I enrolled in a literature class instead of the Fashion Police Academy. Watch out Joan Rivers. I’m gonna learn how to dungeon dragon you like Nicki Minaj.
Ma told me we’re going to therapy but she dumped me off at school instead. I was pissed because I’m in love with my therapist. He’s gay. Anyway, on the first day of class my teacher asked us a stupid question. What is a poem? I told her, “I am a poem.” She called me a jerk and told me God would punish me. In the meantime, she said, sit here. So I did.
My teacher said that Jericho Brown said “words manipulated into music make a poem.” Then she said Sandra Simonds said “a song is where every beat is perfectly measured—a poem that is perfectly timed and counted like clockwork—this is not for me because I am already aware of time—I am already running but I don’t want to let it run me.” I told the teacher that Simonds and Brown must be high or hijinkers or meat heads or liars. I am a poem, I said, again. Enough said.
The teacher said we had to write an essay. The guy behind me was like WTF is up with my horns. I told her I had to pee super hard and was about to wet my skirt. She gave me permission and said I could go. So I did. I sat on the sink and tried to pee real hard. But I don’t have any plumbing. Not even a hole.
When I got back to class, everyone was quiet and writing like mad crack head matters. They wrote as if their life depends on poetry. Wrote as if the words they put down would save them from something super supernatural. I just sat at watched the other students write. Write and write. I watched the big boys and girls manipulate words into music. Sonoic boom. I watched them write essays where every beat is perfectly measured—every sentence perfectly timed and counted. I counted their strokes like clockwork oranges. I watched them run their hands across the page like deranged tarantulas.
This is not for me, I thought, because I am already aware of time, of the orange clock ticking. Tock. Tock. I am already running but I don’t want to let it run me anymore. So I sat on my ass and let the bullet trains run on time.