If You Tell Them What

Careful There, Poet. I Might Start To Believe You.

We're In English Class, Which For Most Of Us Is An Excruciating Exercise In Staying Awake Through The Great Classics Of Literature. These Works - Groundbreaking, Incendiary, Timeless - Have Been Pureed By The Curriculum Monsters Into A Digestible Pabulum Of Themes And Factoids We Can Spew Back On A Test. Scoring Well On Tests Is The Sort Of Happy Thing That Gets The School District The Greenbacks They Crave. Understanding And Appreciating The Material Are Secondary.

It's Only His Thumb Brushing Slowly Across The Lower Edge Of My Lip, But It's As If Time Slows And The Sweep Of That Thumb Below My Mouth Takes Forever. It Is No Spell That I Know Of, But It Holds Such Magic, I Can Scarcely Breath. He Pulls His Hand Away Fast, Aware Of What He's Done. But His Touch Lingers.

Things Aren't Good Or Bad In And Of Themselves. It's What We Do With Them That Makes Them So.

War." Gorgon Spits The Word. "that Is What They Call It To Give The Illusion Of Honor And Law. It Is Chaos. Madness And Blood And The Hunger To Win. It Has Always Been Thus And Shall Always Be So.