My annual, end of a class, acrostic poem.
For These Eleven, a War on Words (and
Worlds)[1]
b.r. crandall
Preamble
W
hy asks Bry, sigh, at the end of
another season, when
o
ur brains are fried and we seek a specific
r
eason for finding meaning in the meaninglessness,
d
ividing senselessness so it makes some
s
ense, are we here?
a
ll of the eleven, hell on earth or heaven,
r
ealizing that the first year’s about to
end
(and blend into summer…)
W
hen life’s less of
a
bummer – when
r
elaxation, once again, becomes a best friend?
i.
Another
six months
nestles
into a year
driven
somewhat by faith, somewhat by fear,
realizing
it takes heart to persevere, to
evolve
with pride under Alfredo’s tear,
when
the cinema, such paradise, disappears and
M
akes stories seem less severe.
e ppur, si muove! it moves toward a new
frontier where a
z
illion chapters have yet to be written – yes, a premier – and
z
ero words have yet to meet the page to be sincere.
i
nspiration…perspiration…respiration
n
ears us closer to an end before
a
nother six months begin
ii.
The
trouble with love is in the connotations
remembering,
unconditionally, the denotation,
as
we reflect on the explanation of what the word actually means.
crap.
like. lick. luck. lack. cake. click. @uck.
you
love and you quiver, cuz
Love
makes us shiver,
entwined
in the river of Gordian knots.
o
h, snots, I love blowing my
n
ose. Sniffle. Sniffle. Ah, amore! amore!
iii.
Strength,
perseverance, integrity, hope.
o
nward we march with this war we have with words,
positioning
them just right – those intellectual brain turds -
harnessing
humor in the sprint that goes towards where
individuals
must hang on for dear life, how absurd.
Athlete.
Muscle. Playing hard. Just Do It All
Developing
the routine, such practice with talent on the ball,
earning
tallies, stats, awards, the announcer’s call for
victory,
achievement, so together we won’t fall,
but will say
I
am a warrior, a scholar, and intellectually stand tall,
tallying
the moments for survival (in Kentucky it’s y’all)
at
this moment, this life, the game, before the downfall (and rebirth)
iv.
m
y war has been with words
a
nd words have been my war
r
ealizing dedication, devotion will help me to soar,
k
icking and screaming all the way. Why? Cuz I have something to say.
D
reams arrive from determination, winning
o
r losing, past procrastination, where the
n
eeds of men and women deny hibernation
a
nd what it means, well, it defies explanation -
t
he best of times, my inclination, are
a ssinine,
because they are right now. how now brown
c
ow. I’m dedicated to this poem and the
c
horus of Ubuntu.
i
can be me because of who we all are together.
v.
V
alue words. Each one could be our last,
i
nternalize them, each, and allow them to amass, and DEATH,
c
apital D, shall be no more! Dance. Move. Harness
t
he day to explore the possibilities – head up, steadfast -
o
n the stage.
r
age. script. write. compose another page
i nvestigate, ask questions,
a
nd engage in the moment.
L
augh. cry. Love. try. Live. sigh.
o
h, Bry,
f
ly high
a aaaaaaaaah,
I remembered her name,
r
eaching for words to express what to say before the standing
o
vation. No applause, please.
vi.
W
ell, Hemingway once wrote,
i
love sleep. My life has the tendency to
l
apse – to fall apart – when I’m awake.
C
hbosky wrote,
a
nd in that moment, I swear we felt infinite.
r
are the thoughts of a wallflower…the
l
earner who sees things…keeps quiet about them…yet
e
verywhere understands.
y
es, this moment wil be just be
another story someday.
vii.
H
e never regrets, but anguishes over
e
verything.
a
sk him, “Would you change your past?” and
t
he answer would be yes. No.
h
e is so indecisive, hyperactive,
e
gregious and quite passive, but
r eally in love with his choices.
G
o, be a teacher, he thought, give them voices,
a
ctively support them in their choices…
i
nvest in all their karmas, and
l
augh at life’s dilemmas (be okay with
o
bscene enemas), but never, never give in to
r
emorse.
viii.
G
uy walks into a bar and asks the
e
ager bartender, “Do you have any helicopter-flavored potato chips?”
r
ight then, the bartender shakes his head
a
nd responds, “No, I only have plain.”
r
ewind. stop for a second. think.
d
ud. yup. Flop.
M
an walks into a bar and sits down next to another
c
ustomer with a dog at his feet. “Does your dog bite?” the
M
an asks as he takes a gulp of his beer. “No,” the customer said.
u
nder the stools stood the hound and a few minutes
l
ater it bit a HUGE chunk out of the man’s leg. The man was not
l
aughing. “Ouch. I thought you said your dog doesn’t bite,” he said
i
ndignantly. “He doesn’t,” the customer replied. “That’s not my dog.”
n
ope. and no one yelled cancel either.
ix.
D
aoists believe if you don’t change direction
a long
the road ahead, you’re likely to end up where you’re going.
m
uhammad wrote that the ink of a scholar
i
s more sacred than the blood of a martyr.
n
irvana is a state of bliss that can be found
i
n life while we have it or after life when it is no more.
P
erhaps the truth is in pastiche
a
nd the mind that finds joy in the simplest of acts and
t
he more we come out of our
e
gos to do good for the world, the more pure our
l
ives will be. This, to me, is God.
x.
K
eadis, Anthony, I think you know him, feels that
e
very artist is inherently non-
v iolent, because they occupy the mind
with creation,
i
nstead of destruction.
n
ot bad, Mr. Chili Pepper. Red hot, actually. But is my poem not
V
iolent because it’s art? What if I wrote of
a
fart after eating burritos and baked beans?
s
ee, I’ve smelled a few that could easily clear a room -
q
uite like a bomb without the shrapnel,
u
sually expressed by this or that skunk.
e
veryone flees the room, Keadis,
z
oom. violence and all from a poem.
xi.
C
hains. That’s what inhibits exiting
a ll
these caves
l
ashing against the walls from the fire behind us.
l
ess is known when one shackles the mind ---
y
es, freedom, comes at a price.
D
olly Parton says, “if you want to see the rainbow…
o
h, you gotta put up with the rain.”
u
m, really Bry? Dolly Parton.
g
reat. Next you’ll be quoting Richard Simmons.
h
e says, “everyone has a story that makes them stronger.”
e
eyore replies, “a little thought for others makes all the difference,”
r
ight before his tail falls off and after
t
he fat boy thinks to himself: I’ll miss
y ou all like a slice of chocolate cake when
he goes on a diet.
termination.
W
ell, states Bry, sigh, it’s the end
of another season.
o
ur brains are fried and there’s never a specific
r
eason for finding meaninglessness in the meaning,
d
oing the senseless to make sense, or else its fleeting…
s itting
in all these classes together.
a
ll of the eleven, or are we twelve, who cares, whatever, have to
r
ealize another year’s about to
end…and
that is why I write… to send another
P
oem into the world. Composed in my head where
e
verything is swirled (perhaps twirled) in rhythm
a
nd rhyme, the simple, the sublime
c
ontext is
e
verything. this text…of course, written…for you.
[1] After a joke Joan Rivers tells, “That girl is so
stupid, she can’t even read Roman numerals. All these years and she still tells
people her father served in World War Eleven.
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