Sensei Lael
vomit in the hall--
are those cheetos, or some strange
new stomach disease?
I pop the cap and
take a big whiff: is that mint
or the smell of death?
industrial-strength
cleaners: good for the body,
the mind, and the soul.
the great orbital
buffer whines, wanders about
the hallway. bad pet.
scuff marks on my floor:
damn rubber heels. gulls return
to shit the beach green.
I got the pine-sol
blues; the smell cloys: stinky gym
socks, grey locker funk.
guidance counselor:
no one knows--it's our secret--
she wrings my mop dry.
the scent of pine--its
spirit fills the hallways, drives
out the human stench
the mop sloshes bright
green fluid all over: god,
devil? No: random.
the floor buffer turns,
orbits like Copernicus'
universe: wax on
in the boiler room
I take my rest; crickets croak:
ham on rye again?
bad bulb, broken desk--
how many janitors does
it take to get screwed?
my grey uniform:
stenciled name, a little loop
for all my damn keys
principal's broken
desk: his squeaky chair: shove it
up your chalk-dry ass
a mop is a thing
of beauty: no matter how
you wring it, it lives
the trash barrels are
heavy today: mad students
throw away hard work
what I find in the
lockers after the school year
could start museum
Sensei Kathleen
hello yellow stain
why can't these boys ever hit
the damn urinal?
without me the mass,
the wave of unending mess
will overtake them
I push the broom hard
in the dark I press it close
respect from my love
i could have been a
great scientist or some shit
fuck that stupid math
my girl, she left me
for a valet--damn it, boys
no running out here!
those snooty teachers
are getting what they deserve
out on their asses
the secret to clean
is industrial-strength shit
that burns and rends flesh
religion exists
in the broom--cleanliness is
next to godliness
if I wash this wall
tender as a lover's back
pure white flesh shines through
the polished glass orb
of outdoor lighting answers
back to him: wax off
in the boiler room
3 o'clock, I meet my love
she brings her whistle
one to hold the bulb
and six to scrape together
cash for the hooker
i sit like buddha
no tree, under the back stairs
with a cigarette
with careful hiding
one can spend all day doing
the art of nothing
the mop speaks to me
in the language of water
soapy and impure
I know not why gum
chooses to gather in dark
cowers from scraper
what I find in the
corners of the teacher's lounge
sells at Priscilla's