I had just
received an instant message from
Arthur,
classmate since Kindergarten
until he moved to tedious Irvington
whose hair was always red,
freckles and glasses to boot,
and even at 5 years old
so wild
a hyperactivity
that survived far past the average life expectancy of 6
and is unbridled still
by structure or authority,
which he Crashes
with rancor
like a 3 train,
Out-lashes
at instructors
with a caged llama’s spit,
Clashes
screaming inexplicably over trifles
exclamations loud as rifles
epithets condemning both family and passersby,
the rules emit rambunctious flashes
as they are shattered like a pane
up against a battering ram
head red with blood of resistance splattered
in a flattering flaming hair formation,

I receive a single line of text from his screen name
"i got expeled from school"
his new boarding school,
Darrow,
he’d been so excited to be there
cuz it wasn’t so
narrow

I ask what for?
"smokeing joints
cutting
and a bunch of shit"

he can reapply next year
What’ll he do this year?
says he’ll go to a program
doesn’t know what kind, which one
Will he reapply next year?
"hells yes
thats the best school in the world."

It was Sept. 30
and he already knew this,
less than a month there
and he’s kicked out.

Some place finally
worked for him
and he fucks it up.

Rebecca, a mutual friend who he introduced me to
a bold empathetic dyed redhead of Irvington
who used to write poetry ‘fore her well dried up
who cried when we passed a pet store
enslaved puppies in the showcase
who wants to save everyone
from their own indiscretion
who was bedridden from back surgery all summer long
who is working as a receptionist at a yoga center
(the yoga her back bars her from partaking in),
and she was bored from all the receiving
so she decided
to attack me on instantvoodoo.com,
and she wanted to know
if I’d just felt a pang of pain.

those computerized voodoo dolls
must be conferring with the gods
in binary code
cuz I feel that deep-seeded wistful kinda centrifugal pang
makes me wanna put on Dylan
and think about things.

Makes me feel like
writing a Howl-esque poem
of epic proportion
in his honor,
but I just translated 236 lines of Latin poetry,
and all that singing of arms and the man
has rendered my mind quite weary;

Heroes go through
such misfortunes
at behest of Baleful Juno’s
timeless voodoo.