just some notes.

my friend who teaches the Multicultural Martial Arts Association club said that his students were complaining that their work out was not nearly as bad as my work out.

today, while teaching, I did the usual “are there any questions?” after a round of instruction and workout. 1 guy, who used to come to my classes but stopped and finally came back today, said, smiling, “yeah, when’s the next class?”

I’ve also been informed that my high school job has the funds to increase my hours and is giving me $300 for equipment. unfortunately, I might not be able to take advantage of the former and cannot, in good conscience, take the latter. we are still doing well with the $75 worth of equipment I ordered last year.

Waking

I’m at my most unguarded in the morning.
My throat is slouched in sleep.
My spit is syrup. My voice,
my only best tool as a teacher,
is still packed away. I never hear
things in my dreams; never need
to speak or tell or argue.

She called me once from her cellphone
instead of the other side of the bed
like she used to and I struggled
to shirk off the coat of sleep
as we talked. Had she ever seen
me that vulnerable? Did she even
at the time?

edit: I lost something great.

Flop River Turn

They gnash their shoulders just
from standing close to one another,
corralling the heat of their bodies.
Protect the spectacle.
They bark but all
that’s perceived is steam
rising in a thick tangle.
The bets lay bundled on the ground,
handled and worn
like Towers of Hanoi.
Some wager panties
of their women as promises.

Punch up in victory, punch biceps
to give good luck, punch inside pockets
to fight off the cold, punch down bets,
punch out lights if someone cheats,
punch losers in the back of the neck.

The contenders fight shivering
more from the cold than the gore
in their mouths. It’s hard
not to swallow. Above
the bramble, someone says
Check out my human! He’s as big
as a fucking cock. Another: Mine’s
a pure bred spic!

When we are dead and gone,
the dogs will throw dice and move on.

[audio:einsteinsnightmare.mp3|titles=Einstein's Nightmare|artists=Jon Chin and Dan Gant]
Words by Jon Chin
Notes by Dan Gant
http://www.jonathanchin.com/audio/einsteinsnightmare.mp3

Askr and Embla

You are beautiful like a sequoia tree.
I know this by the amber in your eyes
and the Heaven bound height that makes it
impossible not to fall for you.
Even your name means you were meant
to be a flowering plant, a teller
of love mes and love me nots.
I might seem like a man
writing through his crisis of wanting
but, honestly, I’m a boy playing
with a pocket knife, a pair of initials,
and a shot through heart.
You are that rare species that grows strongest
in the incandescence of a forest fire
but lacking that heat, I can now count
the branching of veins though your pallor.

Dryad, you haven’t met my hands,
the creators of words, the warmth of their holding,
nor my arms that want nothing more
than to hug trees. Sequoia –
a word borrowed from the Iroquois,
masters of hiding their talk in the winds.
I use this romantic code
so you could get the meaning before you get the message:
I like you. I think you’re out of my league.
I think you’re most beautiful when you’re standing still and planted.
Your ears peek out like leaves;
you would have been Robert Frost’s wet dream
and now I’m just rambling but they say
that’s the 1st sign of tree blindness.
I use a language you don’t know
so maybe you’d start to understand
how I wonder at the aurora arborealis
that always seems to follow you.

It’s strange because
I know the rain,
know when it falls,
know when it stays in the clouds,
waiting for the sun to make its rounds
so it could serenade the lovers with its timpani drums
and I know the sun rays,
the straight laced kiss
of their unraveled fists.
I know the Earth, its magi’s gift,
its cradling lush, the generosity
with which it shares its soiled blood.
I just can’t figure out
how you add up
to so much more
than the simple sum
of all this music, mercy,
and martyrdom.

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