An eighteen year old who will very soon be one of The Shins, The Beatles, The New Pornographers, Passion Pit even... Animal Collective, Neutral Milk Hotel... the boy comes into poetry class late,
he avoids the teacher's eye as he slides into the desk/chair in the corner in the front near the door.
He holds a folded piece of printer paper and a hes wearing only a sweatshirt even though its raining outside
his shoulders are wet and his hair is wet.
He turns to stare intentently at the girl whos rhyming love poem was interrupted when the boy banged through the heavy door
and squeaked across the floor on his wet sneakers.
The girl looses her place, looks quickly at the teacher who nods calmly
looks quickly at the boy who stares...
she reads the rest of her poem.
the teacher tells her something about a poem being like a story board
'you should be able to draw an illustration in a box next to each line.'
Of course the teacher calls on the boy next, to put him on the spot, because he was late.
The boy unfolds his paper and reads out the lyrics of one of his songs, without a chorus, without repeats... it sounds just like a poem and none of us have ever heard it before.
The images are like fresh photographs taken with a camera youve never heard of that creates a kind of triangle shaped image youve never seen before... there is a new color in the spectrum.
'I jumped across three or four beds into your arms." says the boy "what a beautiful face i have found in this place that is circling all round the sun."
...what i mean is: i like to imagine them and how their minds match the minds of the boys at the community colleges who take 8am poetry classes and have lots to say
but arrive late.