Temple Of Manhood

This poem ironically was really popular in Russia over youtube. *shrug*
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Ladies,

social direction might dictate,
that I have to hold the door open for you,
might have to pay for you if I took you on a date,
and if you slap me, I'm a baby for whining, but if I slap you it's domestic violence.
And you might get the house and the kids even though you were the one
who wanted the divorce.
But the last laugh is still mine.
Because while we're waiting in court,
and you're bleeding me for every cent I have,
and we take our breaks to go to the bathroom,
your wait--will be an hour long,
and I'll walk right in,
no wait whatsoever,
to the sacred temple of manhood.
You can have the kids,
the house, the car,
and all my money.
But the urinal is mine,
And you will never have it!!

Deficit Attention Disorder

This is my second poem in the first Perspectives, Poetry Concerning Autism and Other Disabilities Anthology.

www.perspectivesanthology.com

www.localgemspoetrypress.com

 

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You say I have a disorder that constitutes a deficit of attention,
I appear, unable to stare,
for countless hours
forcing my focus on the frivolous frustrating formulas floundering before me,
on the black board.
Can’t do it without, shaking the leg,
bobbing the head,
looking around aimlessly,
My disorder constitutes a deficit of attention?
Perhaps the deficit is in what you would have me be paying attention to?
Biologically speaking,

omnivores have carnivorous tendencies,
like a cat shoots after a mouse
or a mole,
or a bird,
darting by faster than eyes can register.
What if those adolescent young men who make up the majority of the diagnosed
are just in conflict with their
personal primal personas?
Calling them beyond the classroom window into the no longer existing wild,
itching to move,
run,
chase and catch the quarry fleeing before them.
The leg, shaking,
the head, bobbing,
body moving,
the pent up, unused energy nature intended for us to use to spring out,
obtain and bring back our catch to the clan.
Your contradicting class room etiquette,
rules designed for simplicity of the structure rather than the welfare of the students is no match for mother nature.
And mother nature tells me,
I want to be outside…
That the answer is out there!

Not on your blackboard.

That’s one possibility, for the lack of attention.
Maybe…it’s your boring monotone,
your pitiful pedantic postulations presuming to judge a mind
on a number

that has lost our interest.
Or the fact you have us memorizing minute miniscule details
micro and macro
learning not for knowledge sake,
but to not fudge the statistics
on the tests decreed to be handed down to us by who gives a crap from
who the heck even knows land?
Now that,
could lose anyone’s interest.
But of course, that’s where our focus should be right?
not outside, at why the temperature is changing,
or looking at the oil spills.
Not at the billions
going hungry,
or the countless people below the poverty line, right here in our backyards.
Not at the fact that more than two and a half million people are incarcerated in the land
of the free,
Or that people are too afraid of lawsuits to help each other in the home
of the brave,
Not at the hunger or hatred,
the unemployment,
the pollution,
or the war.
Not at everything happening right here, right now, under our noses,
all of it going by, unnoticed and ignored,
for staring at the board 8 hours a day,
or at the computer screens in the cubicles, focused in on a single solitary
task with all the focus in the world,
ignorant of what’s going on out there in the real world,
and we,
the ones with A.D.D.
are the ones not paying attention? You say, I have a disorder constituting a deficit of attention.
Well, maybe, just maybe
the deficit, is in what you would have me, be paying attention to.

 

Aspiring Biology Major

She was only 5 foot 5
But she had double d's!
Or at least I think she did.
When she got up and walked over to me,
and they were bobbing up and down in that tank top
my ADD went out the window
And I paid good attention,
debating with myself,
whether those double D's were in fact double D's, or just plain old regular D's.
As she stood there in front of me, muttering little nothings in her native tongue,
something like "Hi, how are you, I'm blah blah," or something,
I couldn't help it,
the science major in me that didn't matriculate at any university I know of
wanted to test his hypothosis
see those milk producing jugs just a little bit closer.
Purely for scientific research reasons, of course.
But I never got the chance.
Apparently I hadn't learned the approach rituals for this species,
it involves something to do with...eye contact?
And after that cat claw turned bear paw,
knocking my glasses...I mean...scientific lenses off my face,
she turned to head back to her habitat.
I never got a closer look at those double D's,
but as she left, my eyes found their way,
to another point of inquiry,
one that you can only get a good look at, from the rear.
I sighed
and wished it wasn't too late to change my major
to biology.

Attention To Detail

Have you ever heard someone walk up to a clerk at a supermarket
and ask for a half gallon of "Napoleon" ice cream?
Napoleon?
You want a Mussolini and a Stalin with that three for five?
Why don’t you go to the deli counter and ask for some
"Ro-to-sory" chicken?
Then swing by Starbucks to get a cup of coffee with
french vanill ER
and splend ER
Do you want some sod ER with your pizz ER?
Not that the A or the ER really matters on soda,

Because if you asked for a Pepsi and they gave you
     Coke, you wouldn’t
even,
notice!
And you can’t remember which one
A Mento makes explode, can you?
Good thing that chemists don’t so easily forget what happens when you mix bleach,
with…
that other thing…

I had a boss once who was OCD,
counted everything over,
and over and over,
and over.

1…2…3…4…
1…1…
1…2…3…4…
4…3…2…1…
….
….
1…2…3…4…
BUT, he never…
got the numbers wrong.

I have been berated,
my opinions negated,
freedom of speech denied,
because of my astute observations,
that the menu advertises penne pasta,
and these underhanded,
two-faced, bait and switch snatchers,
give me…
RIGATONI!
Are people that blind, culinary speaking?
There is a great difference! Can you not,
taste it?
smell it?
feel it?
see…that one of the noodle tips..
is more…
POINTY!?

Call me compulsive,

Call me uptight,
that I won’t eat a hotdog, without a hot dog bun!
Maybe it wouldn’t matter if I was starving,
from the third world,
food would be food.
Maybe these minute differences don’t matter…
So then…
I guess it wouldn’t matter, on Wall Street
if we switched the 474, to a 744?
or a 693 to a 396?
Then again, maybe,
If people had known the difference,
between the Japanese bombers, and Japanese Americans,
really knew the difference,
The Manzanar relocation center in 1942, might not have happened.
Maybe if we watched the details,
Harvard professors who are also African Americans,
wouldn’t get carted off to jail,
just for trying to get back into their own homes.
And maybe if we paid real attention,
we might have known the difference,
between one Arab nation and another,
known our real enemies,
know that it’s not the Turban, that indicates ideology.
Maybe, if we knew the details,
we could differentiate between innocent and guilty,
maybe…
I don’t know for sure.
Maybe this new wave of OCD, compulsive people coming up in the world,
is nature’s own way of countering the mess we’ve made,
by not paying attention.
I don’t know if the world would truly be better if we paid attention to detail,
but I do know, what it looks like, when we don’t,
and it, is a mess.

His Disability

This poem is the one that inspired the Perspectives Series.
www.perspectivesanthology.com


It started out as a letter to my former best friend's mother, and eventually turned into this. As always, it is for you, Matt.

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His Disability
by
James P. Wagner (Ishwa)


His disability was your excuse.
His disability
was why you did everything for him,
after his father left.
Woke him up,
Made his bed,
Breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Did his laundry,
ironed his clothes.
Cleaned, scrubbed,
took a second job so he wouldn’t have to work one,
even though he’s 24 and you’re 65.

But he can’t work, right?
He can’t clean, he can’t do his laundry,
he can’t cook…
“He’s autistic! What do you expect?!”

What do I expect?
I don’t expect anything,
but I remember:

I remember him, in the marching band,
playing that trombone with more enthusiasm
than more than half of his fellow musicians.

I remember his dramatic readings,
in English class.
Iambic pentameter flowing out of his mouth as
naturally as each breath.

I remember, in history, he never forgot a date, could
name all the presidents backwards.
In science class…they might not have let him handle the
chemicals anymore,
after that…unfortunate incident with the eyebrows,
BUT…he has the entire periodic table memorized.
Gym!!
When he got hold of the football,
everyone,
myself included,
parted like the Red Sea
for Moses.
No one wanted to mess,
we all stood out of the way, of THAT charge.

I remember his room, spotless.
I remember him cleaning, taking the garbage.
I remember him making his own dinner.
I remember him…being, social…as best as he could.

I remember
early in eighth grade, when he did something wrong, you’d punish him.
I remember later on in eighth grade…the punishments
stopped.
I remember in the middle of eighth grade,
When he would hum to himself,
and twiddle his fingers non-stop, and not realize,
when the other kids were making fun of him for it.
I remember they, the teachers, couldn’t handle
that he couldn’t sit down
for the entire period.

I remember
that they were clueless concerning him, and when it came time for a convenient classification, a consistently
competent yet callous teacher aid uttered the possibility
“Maybe he’s on the spectrum.”

His disability, you say,
you proclaim…

Was his disability the reason
he could calculate faster and in higher denominations than
our TI-83’s?
Was his disability what put him on the honor roll,
was his disability what got him more scholarships to more
colleges than our graduating class’s valedictorian?

Free tuition,
free dorm room,
Meal plan, books, all bought and paid for in a package fit
for a king,
before he set foot there, only so you could tell him,
“It’s ok, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,
you can drop out.”

So he did:
his disability.
So now, he sits in his room,
all day long,
and you make his bed,
breakfast, lunch dinner,
wash his clothes,
clean the bathroom after him,
while he
does
NOTHING.

Gaining fat, gaining weight,
on the computer,
video games, 24/7
No friends to speak of,
No responsibility, productivity,

Life to call his own?
What happens to him
when you’re gone?
Now that you’ve taken off his gloves,
taken him out of the ring,
his muscles have atrophied,
no longer able to go ten rounds, with life.

Will he relearn all that you made him forget?
Or will it be KO in round one?
I don’t know,
but don’t talk to me
about his disability
because I remember
what I didn’t stop him from doing.

His disability,
you exclaim,
his disability.
Disability defined as what gives one a disadvantage.

His disability.
His disability.
His disability…is…you.