The Light
Sunflowers sit sleepy at their desks Here in the brick building set on Salish land, wondering why the pen feels painful propped between the pulse of finger and thumb “Ms. Sjodin?” one asks, “Is this for marks?” My naaame is Leanne. Marks?! marks making material from ethereal and pushing pondering and process to the realm of meaningless meaning less in a system of reward and what do you think anyway? so what while one sleepy flower coos softly from under his finally so close to getting out fine feather blanket his fingers fold, hold the pencil bitten at its end I can see the wood chips splintered between his teeth and I wonder why he doesn’t just spit them out once in a while like Randy Jackson getting’ his groove on over a good beat and a dance crew steppin’ out into the screw you with a see my feet fly so high over the ingratitude and the flat hand on the head top no stop suddenly, there’s a crackle and a voice pops soft over the PA I hear it, the question “Why? Why Santy Clause, w...