"I'm thinking about you", by Mike Taylor

From "Brave New Voices", as seen on YouTube:

Yesterday you asked me
if I think about you during the day,
in class or on the bus.
Do I ever wonder who you’re with,
or what you’re doing,
or what you’re thinking about?
Well, I’m in math class right now...
and I’m thinking about you like crazy!

Like,

hands think about holding,

and arms think about folding.

and minds think about not thinking,

but knowing.

I’m thinking about you

like feet think about socks

and socks think about shoes.

I’m thinking about you

like rock and metal think about screaming

like blues think about rhythm,

like hip-hop thinks about… hoes?

Like gardeners think about hose,

I’m thinking about you

like tops think about spinning

like rocks think about sitting

and cops think about arresting people.

I’m thinking about you

like people think about the clock

five minutes before their shift ends.

I’m thinking about you

like A thinks about being with B,

like B thinks about C and D,

like E, F and G,

like H… I and J.

I’m thinking about you

like white and black think about

making grey in a paint pallet,

like night thinks about making day in the morning

like rain clouds think about pouring,

I’m thinking about you

like math analysis thinks about being boring

(Because, seriously,

any class this boring

has had to take some serious thought.)

I’m thinking about you

like the last problem in this math quiz.

I’m thinking about you

like bugs think about grass,

like thugs think about… grass.

like students think about class,

like, ladies! think about class,

like lower mid class people think about flying first class to places

they only think about, like New Zealand or France.

I’m thinking about you

like pilots think about the horizon,

like the clouds think about the wind

and the wind thinks about trees,

like teenage boys think about the birds and the bees,

and the bees think about serving the queen, and making honey,

and honey, I’m thinking about you like crazy!

Like,

like mattresses think about springs

and winter thinks about spring,

who thinks about summer

and it doesn’t matter what season it its!

When I’m thinking about you it’s always sunny,

like rainbows and bunnies,

and I’m thinking about you

like rich people think about making money,

and broke people think about making money,

and when I’m thinking about you,

the world makes sense.

Let me go change.

I’m thinking about you when I get dressed

because, before I step on stage,

when I look at myself in the mirror

you’re the only one

that I’m trying to impress.

I’m thinking about you

like boats think about floating

and paddles think about rowing

and poets think about flowing

I’m thinking about you

like bankers think about loaning

like renters think about owning

and stoners think about…

throwing rocks!

I’m thinking about you

like keyboards think about keys,

and keys think about unlocking locks,

like goldilocks still thinks about bears

like Bears thinks about being cool.

I’m thinking about you

like refrigerators think about being cool

and microwaves think about being hot,

like kids think about breaking rules,

like targets think about getting shot.

I’m in math class right now,

not trying to get you off my mind.

Just simply off the sine, cosine

and tangent lines I’m graphing.

I’m thinking about you

like numbers think about adding,

like cripples think about standing.

I’m thinking about standing up

and walking out.

I’ll say I have to go to the bathroom or something
and I’m gonna find out exactly who you’re with,

and what you’re doing and what you’re thinking about!

but,

I think you’re in math class right now, too.

So I’ll text you:

'I’M. THINKING. ABOUT. YOU.'

Send!

"Repetition" and "Teeth", by Phil Kaye

From some of his performances and his TEDxTalk, as seen on YouTube:

1.

My mother taught me this trick: if you repeat something over and over again, it loses its meaning.

For example: “Homework, homework, homework homework homework, —“, see? Nothing. Our lives, she said, are the same way. You watch the sunset too often and it just becomes 6 pm. You make the same mistake over and over and you’ll stop calling it a mistake. If you just “wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up”, one day you’ll forget why.  I should’ve known: nothing is forever.

My parents left each other when I was 7 years old. Before their last argument they’ve sent me off to the neighbor’s house, like some astronaut jetticing from the shuttle. When I came back, there was no gravity at our home. I imagined it as an accident: when I left, they whispered “I love you” so many times over, that they forgot what it meant. “Family, family, family, family…”

My mother taught me this trick, that if you repeat something over and over again, it loses its meaning. This became my favorite game. It made the sting of words evaporate: “separation, separation, separation—“, see? Nothing! “Apart, apart, apart, apart—“, see? Nothing!

I’m an injured handyman now. I work with words, all day— shut up! I know the irony. When I was young, I was taught that the trick to dominating language was breaking it down, convincing it was worthless. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you—“, see? Nothing!

Soon after my parents’ divorce, I developed a stutter. Fate is a cruel and efficient tutor. There is no escape in stutter. You can feel the meaning of every word drag itself up your throat. “S-s-separation”. Stutter is a cage made of mirrors. Every “what you said?”, every “just, take your time”; every “c’mon, kid, spit it out!” is a glaring reflection of a existence  that you cannot escape. Every awful moment trips over its own announcement again, and again, and again, until it just hangs there in the center of the room, as if what you were to say had no gravity at all.

Mom, dad: I’m not wasteful with my words anymore. Even now, after hundreds of hours practicing away my stutter, I can still feel the claw of meaning at the bottom of my throat. Listen to me. I heard that even in space you can hear the scratch of a “I-, I-, I-, I… love you.”

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2.

“Ojīchama” is what I call my Japanese grandfather. In 1945 his Tokyo home was burned to the ground. “Granpy” is what I call my American grandpa. In 1945 he was serving in the USS Shangri-la, sending off American bomber pilots to burn down Japanese houses. Our jaws have not yet healed.

1906, Poland: Granpy’s father is hiding in an oven. He doesn’t know the irony of that yet. He’s heard men singing on the streets below— hyenas, my family calls them. After celebration drinks and songs, the outside townspeople come into the Jewish ghetto for a celebration beating: molar fireworks and eyelid explosions. Even when Granpy’s father grows up, the sound of sudden song breaks his body into a sweat. Fear of joy is the darkest of captivities.

1975, Tokyo: my father, the long haired student with a penchant for sexual innuendo, meets Keiko Hori, a well dressed banker which forgets the choruses to her favorite songs. 12 years later they give birth to a lengthy light bulb.

1999, California: my mother speaks to me in Japanese. Most days I don’t have the strength to ask her to translate the big words. “They’ve burned that house down, Mother. Don’t you remember?”

1771, Prague: in the heart of the city, there’s a Jewish cemetery: the only plot of land where Granpy’s ancestors were allowed to be buried. When they ran out of room, they had no choice but to stack dead bodies, one on top of another. Now there are hills made from graves piled 12 deep; individual tombstones, jutting out crooked like valiant teeth, emerging from a jaw left to rot.

1985, my parent’s wedding: the two families sit together, smiling wider than they need to. You must be so happy…

1999: I sit with Granpy’s cousin, 91 years old and dressed in full uniform. I beg with him to until the knots in his brow. He says: “Hate is a strong word. But it’s the only strength that I have left. How am I to forgive the men that severed the trunk of my family tree, and used it as timber to warm the faces of their own children?”

2010: Granpy and I sit together to watch his favorite — baseball. In the infertile glow of the television I see his face wet. Granpy sits on his wheelchair, teeth gasping out of his gums like valiant tombstones emerging from a cemetery left to rot. The teeth sit staring at me, and I can read them: Louie Burgman, killed at Auschwitz. Sarah Liz, killed at Dachau. William Kaye, killed at the coast of Okinawa.

“I will never forget what is happened to our family, Granpy”, and he looks at me with the surprised innocence of a child struck for the first time.

“Phillip, forgetting is the only gift I wish to give you. I have given away my only son, trying to bury my hate in a cemetery which is already overflowing. There are nights I’m kept awake by the birthday songs of children I chose not to let live… they all look like you. A plague on both your houses. They have made worms’ meat of me.”

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