Untitled: In Response To GPS Devices Now Used In Some American Schools (Poem)

What's the big deal

If the officials require the students to wear student ID badges
with RFID, GPS tracking abilities

so that the AUTHORITIES can know where the students are
every second of every day
watching them like blips on a computer monitor?
What's the big deal?
Some students claim they have a right to privacy.
Privacy? On school grounds? I though we established that they have no right
to privacy with the long tradition of mandatory searches without warrants!
Some parents claim it violates their religious freedom having to wear the mark of the beast.
Come on...I thought it was made clear that in this land of free religion they have no religious rights in schools!
which is why you can't say the C word, the H word or the Q word during the holidays.
And in case it isn't self-evident enough
I thought we already accepted
as a culture
a long, long time ago
that children must go to school school
whether they want to or not
forced by the law.
and that when in school
they must be watched closely by authorities
must do exactly what they are told to do by the authorities.
They are not allowed to wander freely without the authorities
Must move only when the bell tells them to move
and only in directions determined by the authorities.
Must eat only when and where they are told to eat...by the authorities
Must ask permission to go to the bathroom and not take too much time doing their business or risk punishment by the authorities
They are forced to exercises but only in certain times and certain ways dictated by...an authority.
They must read not what they want to read but what they are told to read...by the authorities.
They are denied free speech and encouraged to forgo the right of critical thinking.
And their press-the student newspaper must be approved by the authorities.
In classes, their thoughts and ideas are graded according to the degree to which they match the official views
of the authorities.
Students accused of an offense are permitted no due process—no trial, no legal recourse—their fate is decided solely by...the authorities.
And voting? Of course students are allowed to vote--for homecoming king and queen!
Unless of course they have committed some major offense such as refusing to wear a tracking device
Like in John Jay High or Anson Jones Middle School where their rights to vote were taken away by
the authorities.
So let them wear the GPS trackers
and make them wear uniforms
I recommend bright orange
and serial numbers
just so those whiney saps who complain about rights
and privacy can stop complaining and finally
admit and accept the school system for what it is
a prison.

Re-Watching Power Rangers

My childhood was filled with the wonder that was
the Mighty Morphing Power Rangers
When the fever of nostalgia for a time long gone hits me
and hits me hard
I find myself indulging in my old VHS tapes,
DVD sets
and searching the Internet to relive the wonder of the early episodes
and I see...

I see the evil villain Rita Repulsa
and I see many a thing wrong with her evil plots.
Why the heck does she only send one monster at a time?
Why does she only attack the one city of angle grove? The one the power rangers live in?
And why does she always make her monsters grow when she should know the Megazord
is just going to spank them?

I see two bullies, Bulk and Skull
who would about as effective as two red hot chili peppers
trying to melt the ice caps if they ever tried to be bullies an actual school.

I see very harmless evil henchmen in the form of the Putti Patrol who never seem to attack anyone other
than the power rangers
and could probably be beaten up by a poodle.
And of course I see no sign of any police or military during any of these conflicts at all.

Breaking the fourth wall, I see and laugh at at the horrible editing, trying to splice together all that stock
footage from the Super Sentai show in Japan,
I see unrealistic action,
I see bad lighting
I see monsters that are OBVIOUSLY puppets,
I see horrible plot-holes,
ridiculous logic,
And the opening credits that happen to be one of my guiltiest pleasures
After all these years I still can't help but get up and dance to.

And yet, I see more...

In every episode
I see an unlikely group of a dancer, a jock, a cheerleader, a geeky brain an exotic overachiever
and later on a bad boy as best friends, in a very politically correct fashion.
And I see them all...working together.
I see them at the Youth Center teaching classes to children
I see them at school, organizing drives to save the environment,
I see them starting multi-cultural food festivals to raise money for playground equipment
I see them designing floats for parades for world peace
I see them working to improve their minds, bodies and spirits, by helping their community,
helping others, and working together for a better tomorrow.

And now,
I look at the shows on television...and I see...
Better and more realistic giant robots
better graphics,
greatly improved fighting choreography
scarier villains with more worthwhile plots
better logic
better video editing
better sets, props, lighting,
with far, far, far
inferior
spirits.
I see none of the somewhat naive yet hopeful encouragement of the 90's to
go out and be part of something better.
No push to help each other, or our communities.
In so many cases, I see no substance at all.

How could we have advanced so far
in every way imaginable
so much since then
and gone completely backwards in the one and only way that really matters?

What happened to the mighty morphing power rangers?
What happened to working together to save the world?
What happened to looking towards the future for a better tomorrow?

What happened?

A Financial Riddle

 

Originally written for the "Recession Depression and Economic Reflection" event.

___________________________________________________________________________

Alright all you financially savvy folk out there—

Let me pose a question.
What do you call a business model
That takes 4-6 years on average to complete
During these 4-6 years you work roughly 12-18 hours a week on sight,
But at least twice that per week—and usually have to take at least one
Maybe two menial part-time jobs to fund your lifestyle during this time as well.
The investment you either put up, or owe amounts to roughly
25 thousand to 100 thousand dollars depending on a variety of factors.
The only interest that might accrue on the investment being the
interest you have to pay off on the loans, you take to make it.
The physical documentation you get in exchange for all of this
has no resale value whatsoever.
And 9 times out of 10 you end up working a second or third
minimum wage job with no benefits to pay off your

Give up?

Business folk would call that a bad investment,

Society calls it a college degree!
I call it the most expensive piece of toilet paper in the entire world.

Temple Of Manhood

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

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!!

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.

_______________________________________________________________
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.