My Biplane

As I saunter to the copier

I release my biplane and colors.

Yore is fertilized

where there are no high schoolers.

Third grade permits

the sweet lights of the mind

to wither self-consciousness.

I saunter on to the copier

 

where the nose dive yanks me in, now

spraying bullets across sea-blue tile.

I know.

I can’t teach my kids that,

affirms the academic, arrogant,

adding “That battle has passed, oh, yoo-hoo . . ?”

the diseased at Columbine, well, made my shrapnel taboo.

 

Yet, rat-a-tat-tat . . . my skull is still sprinkled with gunners and ghosts,

and my memory of much has risen.

I’ll take my chances with the dean.

I will still impart

my clouds and colors,

my bullet-ridden biplane.

For, my students of nine

years need gardening of the mind

more than protractors and things.

 

I see the German insignia in the mist,

but my English chums hone in

on the nefarious green craft.

Tiny dark equal signs, no longer tiny dark equal signs.

 

Spray, ah, duck!

The blood of the clouds . . I open up my hot barrels:

 

and I cannot find the copier.