ACCURATE ERROR

The suffering and the slings

are a part of the arrow’s arc.

Where the dart lands 

is almost incidental.

Accuracy is in the error.

Mistakes are the way we aim. 

TAUGHT TO BE TAUT

In second grade

as I was learning 

to write in cursive—

learning to make 

all those loops and swirls 

inside of those very narrow 

parameters, between 

the parallel lines 

and over and under 

the dashes in the middle

on that very thin beige paper

that could so easily tear—

during this time 

I was having 

a hard time sitting 

still in my very cramped 

and uncomfortable 

wooden desk. I had long

bleach-blond hair then 

from all the time I spent 

in the over-chlorinated  

pool in my backyard.

When I looked down

to do my work 

at my school desk

my hair got in my eyes.

I developed the habit

of quickly whipping 

my head back,

to get the blond strands

and curls out 

of my face. I did this

incessantly. Something about

the longness of my hair 

and the flipping motion

had me feel cool. Special. 

I had something that 

no one else had.

This little tic of mine, though, 

annoyed my teacher to no end. 

Also, during this time

and in preparation for the holidays, 

we were learning about crafts. 

One of the volunteer-mothers 

would come in weekly, 

leading up to Christmas, 

to teach us how to do macramé,

how to make very tight knots 

with straight hard white twine

that hung down 

from the dowel

they were tied to, 

that we were given.

During this time, 

with the help of my teacher

and the volunteer-mother, 

I learned that I was hyper-active,

spastic they said.

I was taught that that was 

who I was. 

And so, because I was 

that kind of child

I was put on Ritalin.

During this time, I also 

learned to teach myself

how to curtail my behavior.

I learned to tie knots 

inside myself, so I would 

fit more easily, docilely,

you might say, within

the lines that were 

being laid out before me.

I learned to lean and loop

myself into patterns

more befitting a boy 

my age and grade.

Patterns that would 

follow the script of 

conformity and decorum

within a classroom setting, 

that in no way nutured nature.

Patterns that are still at play today

that I am only beginning to 

erase and dismantle,

so that I may wade back into

the waters of who I once was

before somebody else's design 

replaced my own, 

my signature style.

LATTICE

Even a

dew drop

knows

what we

forget:

a thing

seen

is always

a reflection

a projection

of something

else.

GHOST LEAVES

My mind 

does this.

After storms

it fills up 

with thoughts

that scatter 

every which way

and land

in so many 

different places.

And then there are 

the ones, the thoughts

that linger

like ghost leaves.