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.

I, The Undead

A poetic commentary on the "wisdom" of conventional lifestyles. 
__________________________________________________________

They always said the impending Zombie apocalypse
would occur
when no one saw it coming.
I certainly didn’t
I don’t remember dying,
But I do remember living.
I remember the beaches and swimming,
I remember the forests and camping,
I remember hiking, sky diving,
martial arts.
I remember when I had the power in my legs,
the endurance in my lungs to charge up the hillside at full speed
to catch the football
thrown to me by my equally capable comrade from over 30
yards off.
No more.
Now I see bloodshot eyes in the mirror,
mutilations, deformities creeping along my body,
the crooked bones in my fingers that once upon a time could
stand those eight hour shifts at the computer
the arch forming in my backbone to match the shape of the low
budget chair
I see it in my aimless walk
the back and forth waddle
half asleep, half awake,
not really either,
A little of both, perhaps?
The scientist’s stimulators not working:
give the monster a monster,
that shot should give him a boost for 5 hours!
Will work immediately!
--It doesn’t work,
and the natural sleep naturally broken by the patterns that form,
that the body gets used to.
How much longer until the transformation is complete?
How much longer until my arm shakes at nothing more than the
weight of a quart of milk—unable to bear the burden of less
than a pound?
How much longer until my legs stop functioning at a pick up
and step pace?
How much longer until I no longer question how much longer,
and take the place amongst the rest of the zombie horde below
ground where the tunnels make the paths that lead them onward
even after they have all but forgotten why?
I don’t remember dying,
but I am no longer living,
“Life” sucked the life out of me,
and here I walk, forward, half asleep, half awake,
bloodshot eyes,
I, the undead.

___________________________________________________

This poem appeared in Voice of The Bards
www.localgemspoetrypress.com/bookstore.html

The Cure Mentality

How often do you hear it?
The cry as intense as a congregation to their preacher,
A message mixed into every other fundraising campaign,
Pamphlet,
Shout out for research-grants
And every attempt to appeal to the quick fix dreams of those
Who are disadvantaged.

We need a cure!
A cure for autism!A cure to help those totally abnormal kids become normal.
A cure against nature,
If they invented one for polio why can’t they invent one for this?
And how many…
How many…
How many people
Flock to this calling?
There are a couple of things
I would want to know first,
Before I jumped on this ill-conceived band-wagon.
What exactly is it that is being cured?
The spectrum of autism has grown exponentially
Periodically
What you would have called quirky in the 60s is now autistic
Introverted is now Aspergers
Quiet now antisocial,
Neuro-typical is now A-typical
Anyone who makes their way to a psych-evaluation will be evaluated as
having 1-3 disorders because those in that profession are trained to see
What they expect to see
And I want to know how you find a cure
For a line in the sand
Arbitrarily drawn by who knows who
From who knows where
And how do you expect to ever cure
What it is you can’t even define?
But despite this all, I do I agree
We do need a cure.
We need a cure for ignorance,
Ignorance by those who would presume to make decisions for an entire
population without being educated as to their needs.
We need a cure for labels
The notion that one characteristic of a personality means one is disabled.
We need a cure for the viewpoint
That those who don’t do as well in the artificial construct of a culture with
arbitrary rules and regulations are somehow inferior.
We need a cure, for the lack of compassion.
We need a cure for the concept that a cure is the answer--The notion that the
next new pill, the daring new breakthrough will some how bring an answer
Simple-wrapped in a box that will take this burden off our shoulders
because humans have been burdened since the dawn of time
And humans have been waiting for an easy solution
And humans have invented everything that could be imagined or couldn’t be
imagined
And now they have everything that they always said they always wanted
And still manage to find a way to be miserable
And blame the person to the left or the right
for why things aren’t just fine and dandy.
We still haven’t cured the sick
We still haven’t fed the hungry
We still haven’t used our shiny little tools to bring happiness.
Why play doctor
Why imagine ailments in people
Why try to practice medicine
When you don’t even understand the concept of disease
If we are all so concerned about making a strong lasting
Mentally healthy society
Why don’t we start focusing on our own
mental
physical
and spiritual Health
first.___________________________________________________________________

This was published in Perspectives, Poetry Concerning Autism and Other Disabilities Volume 2.
www.perspectivesanthology.com

Me And Sandy (Hurricane Sandy Poem)

This is the poem I wrote for the anthology Songs Of Sandy, it will be read live at the live event on January 19th 2013 at the Walt Whitman Birthplace to raise money to donate to Sandy Relief.
www.songsofsandy.weebly.com for more information.

____________________________________________________________________________

After reinforcing
the doors and windows
and everything else around the house
we waited for the storm.
We had no need for the hunt
The emergency supply hunt panic
as our house was well stocked
—almost too stocked
well before her name was ever spoken.
As the rain picked up and the wind got more intense
I spent the first night in my basement, finishing
work on the internet
watching ye old episodes of the Mighty Morphing
Power Rangers
on DVD
relishing the power while it was still there.
Attempting to prepare to be separated from it indefinitely.
Flashlights, walky talkies,
stack of books to my right,
I was set to lose power.
And we did—like we expected to.
I spent the first half hour writing a poem,
Before long,
I jumped onto my manual exercise bike
and started reading chapter after chapter of
the Game of Thrones series to candlelight.
"This isn't so bad, nice to have a break
from all that noise online." I thought
as I started playing old fashioned Pokemon on my battery powered Gameboy advanced
(which isn't so advanced anymore, but still fun.)
I went to bed around midnight
After 5 or 6 hours with no power.
When I woke up the next day around 9 in the morning,
the lights were on, the television, the internet,
everything had been restored to me
as if it went on a brief vacation.
For me, personally, the hurricane
was a mere inconvenience.
But for others...
for friends and family members
and fellow human beings
it was much, much
worse.
Houses washed away
Family treasures lost
Flooding up the streets, no power
no food, no rescue for the injured
for untold amounts of time in some cases.
Dozens dead—and this, just in the US
As the media vastly overlooks the devastation
in the other parts of the world.
And as I see the images of the houses under water,
the homes collapsed
the people whose lives
have been turned upside down
by mother nature,
I also see the newsfeed on facebook
Where people my age are complaining
about being without power for an hour
and how "miserable" this makes their lives.
I wonder if any of them realize
that for thousands of years we had no power
I wonder if any of them realize
that millions and millions in this world today
still live without those luxuries
I wonder if any of them
could put themselves into the shoes
of those who had lost
so much
and I wondered if any of them
even had the foresight
or the wisdom
to even bother
to try.

A Cultural Cancer (In Response To Sandy Hook)

I read this at a poetry event yesterday and everyone wanted a copy. So I decided to post this here. No, I am not defending guns in this poem--merely saying that in my opinion that gun control is just the frosting on a cake of problems that led to this tragedy and I'd like to see some of the other problems get as much attention. I could be wrong.

________________________________________________________________________________
Fighting a shooting
with gun control
is like fighting cancer with a wig
it feels good, looks good and is cheap
but ignores the fact that you are being eaten
from the inside out.
And as I look the reactions to the shooting
the fact that so many have made this about gun law
the fact that the media tries to blame this shooting on autism
the fact that the picture of the killer is on the front page
ten times as often as the pictures of the victims or their families
the fact that this killer who i refuse to give a name will be a household name
rather than the teacher who shielded her students from the bullets with her body
the fact that no one remembers in the amnesia of the human race that every time
something like this happens
these same debates
this same anger
this same bickering
and sometimes new laws pass
sometimes they don't
but by the end of it all
the energy and time and words that could have been used
to help create a culture more about compassion
and understanding, one that listens
one that takes away the stress
one like the rest of the first world that also has our guns
our violent movies, our violent video games
yet a fraction of our shootings and murders because they also have
community, and caring and a friendship and family
hearts and minds that are on the same page
prevention rather than penalty
knowing that love and now laws changes lives,
is all but drained in our haste to speak
rather than think.
Who is really thinking about those kids
who is really thinking about the kids of now and the kids of tomorrow
in a world where we act like we are the last generations that will ever see the fact of this Earth
leaving nothing to anyone after us
putting mounting pressure into every facet of our days with our 80 hour workweeks
get up and go not stop and think not stop and talk
double DVD set in the mini vans so the mom can be on the phone while driving and the kids can be distracted by Sponge bob and Dora
never having a relationship
never learning who your children are
never knowing what they want
what they need
never connecting
everyone connected with Facebook and twitter and iPhones and iPads
but never connected
everything fleeting
hearts bleeding
and you seriously think taking away a few more guns is the answer to this cancer
that has infected our day to day lives?
Newsflash, for the news:
we are all to blame when something like this happens.

And no amount of gun control
lawsuits
prison time
new laws
restrictions
anger
bickering
or bullshit
is going to bring those 20 children back
or stop the next 20 from dying
if we don't take off the f*cking wig
and start treating this cancer.

The Missing Bread

This is a sample poem from my upcoming book

"The Customer is Often Wrong."

Even though the book is a poetic comedy act--I do believe that there is a serious philosophy to be had in the argument against the customer being always right--it has created a culture of abused workers and customers who get rewarded for stamping their feet like children. The good customer gets no recognition either--there is more incentive to be a complainer than to be well-mannered. Even though this book is meant to be funny, there is a serious undertone as well that I hope makes it through.

_________________________________________________________________________
“Can I get a large loaf of white bread?”
“We're out of bread right now.”
“Out of bread?”
“Yes, out of bread.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“How can you be out of bread?”
“Well...people just kept asking for it, we kept selling it,
and then we didn't get anymore in.”
“Could I get a small loaf of white bread, then?”
“Ma'am, we are out of all kinds of bread, not just the large loaf.”
“Do you have any whole wheat bread?”
“No Ma'am.”
“How about a small whole wheat?”
“Nope.”
“Any Multi-Grain?”
“No ma'am, we are OUT of bread Have none.”
“Are you sure?”
“I'm sure.”
“Maybe a raisin bread?”
“Ma'am, we have no bread, at ALL.”
“Not even a rye bread?”
“No rye, no white, no whole wheat—we have no bread whatsoever in the store at all,
of any kind at all.”
“Could you check the back?”
“There is no back, what you see on these shelves is what we have.
And as you can see, they are empty.”
“Hmmm...” she says finally as if in deep thought.
“Yeah, sorry about that.”
“That's alright...I really came here for milk anyway.”
You cross your fingers and pray to God that that you haven't sold out of milk as well.

Crumbling of an Empire

Remember baseball cards?
What the crap happened to them?
Internet…
1999—there was a card shop
hobby shop
comic shop on every corner.
Now? I have to go 5 towns over just to find one.
And it’s small,
Really small,
So small I can’t get by the fat guy in the superman sweater
On my way to the batman rack.
I don’t mind so much, because I know that’s the only
Rack he’s ever going to touch.
But where do you buy cards now?
Target? Walmart?
That’s no fun!
My dad owned a card shop back when
Yu-Gi-Oh Nerds
Starwars Customizable Card kiddos
And Magic The Gathering Gatherers
Would throw away their allowance, birthday, and
Christmas money
In exchange for small pieces of cardboard.
I was never that stupid
I got them for cost!
Cuz my dad owned the store!
I’d buy whole boxes
Sort them out and ran a side business during my lunch hour!
In elementary school I’d trade them for twinkies
By high school I got cold-hard-cash!
I would convince these kids that a 50 cent card was worth
5 dollars! And this was before the internet! What did they know!?
I’d forge autographs to jack up the price
I bought my first car cause of my clever con-artistry.
And now, my empire has crumbled.
No one wants cards anymore
They want facebook credits
And instant downloads
I can’t get those wholesale!
And even if I could, they’d have no resale value whatsoever.
And you can’t forge an autograph on a fart app for your I-phone.
You’ve ruined my personal economy Internet.
You ruined it!
Now I gotta get a job…

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.

Yuppie Mobile

She barreled down the street,

turned into my drive through
and quickly crashed into one of the polls.
I ran out, towards the giant
12 foot long, 7 foot wide yuppie mobile to ask
"Are you OK?"
The middle-aged woman with her badly died
flock of seagulls haircut turns to me,
stares at me,
and says,
"Why is your drive-through so narrow?!"
I see the family portrait on the back windshield,
and am happy that none
of her 5 kids
were in the car.

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!!

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

 

________________________________________________________

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.

_______________________________________________________________
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.