Jason’s classmate, Angelo’s hand is a hovering helicopter; his words whirr in the air, Waz, I gonna’ say? Waz, I gonna’ say? Waz, I gonna’ say? Never mind . Angelo’s classmate, David, tries to postpone Hitchcock before I hit play. Can’t we just watch some prison movie where guys get randy? David’s classmate, John, draws a haloed manchild throwing a book into a roaring fire, his answer to draw yourself as a reader. John’s classmate, Abel, captions an astronaut kneeling at the altar of me gusta la ciencia : A solar flare on the sun . (See, I knew it.) Abel’s classmates, Kneinah, an Oregon transplant in October, announces, I gotta’ piss like a racehorse. Where’s the john? (What is happening?) Kneinah’s grandmother looks away. I try to fill the door frame as if I’m bigger than a bear. Kneinah disappears in December. Kneinah’s classmate, Riccardo, reads aloud his write for ten minutes about ten minutes of your weekend. White cops right here by school; White cops stopped me for walking, right here . Right here. Riccardo’s anger leaves soot on the page. (What if we were to interview the local cops?) Riccardo’s classmate, Glenn, shakes his head, no. No. I never got to go on a fieldtrip. Not once. Not in grade school. Middle school. Not here. Nope . Field trips are for fancy kids (That was Jason). They go everywhere. (I took honors students to clean the beach. To the Shakespeare Festival.) Glenn’s classmate, Derrick writes, Chicks would hella’ dig on it; there’s murder and sex. That’s why Romeo and Juliet is still around, 400 years later. Derrick’s classmates Donald, Sonny, Jason, Angelo, David, John, Abel, Riccardo, Glenn, and Derrick are ten of 18 boys + Kneinah and Olivia in our class of 20.
HVWP COMMONPLACE 26
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