Tim's calisthenic from class today. I did a new one and yeah, I know--the ending.
I Left the Class
In the poem we discussed today, I made
points in a box of crayons. Its smell
was like the waxing tornados of a sherbert
covered thunderstorm. I left the class and lifted
my head like the end of a snapped twig. I see spots,
staring at the fluorescent lights until the white
turns blue. I shut my eyes and see
circles. The harder I squint, the redder
they become, and when I reach out and grab
the walls, I tingle awareness of each dent,
like the dappled damage on the Corvette in the State
Farm commercial. I crush cans like robots
devour cars and as it smashes in my hand
I cut my palm and spin out colors. But
I don't just make red, I am the Alaskan
shades of cauliflower. I am the tired shades
of steely gray. I make the hurried lines
of forest green push out in the wintered
crystals of blue-violet. I am more rainbow
than Rose Art. And the political points
I make leave me no simple red, no
liberated blue collar.
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