Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School
So many of my poems having so little to do with my life and lost in their language like Hansel and Gretel amongst the trees, in the woods, in the tales of fairies.
I want to come back to the real and reel it in like bass in a lake in the Adirondacks when I was twelve and with my best friend’s, Barneys, family.
I want to return to the first time I kissed Lauren on the lips on Freedom Road in my dad’s borrowed Riviera.
I want to go back to 1989 when I won the A-competition singles at North Shore Tennis Club in Bayside.
I want to win first place again at the New Jersey Ski Racing Association in slalom. The course was solid ice. I was one of the few that didn’t crash.
I want to knock out another pro at Trump Plaza in Atlantic City.
I want to pick up my Ph.D. in literature again at CUNY.
I want to leave insanity, confusion and vagueness on my doorstep and pull up my bipolar door mat and put it inside my coop.
I want to greet the FBI as they raided my office at 120 Wall Street. They didn’t know that I had already been arrested by their Delaware office.
The feds make a lot of mistakes. Like failing to confront Nikolas Cruz at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. Like allowing him to kill seventeen. Like the cops were stuck in their own dreams. They were their own screams that never happened.