In the 4th grade, my teacher had me tutor
an older student, who'd been held back,
because he was stupid. He couldn't get
long division. We went outside the classroom,
to the stairs, and I coached him, one-on-one.
I couldn't do it either. I wasn't a trained educationist.
In the 6th grade my teacher moved my desk out into the hall,
so I wouldn't disturb her class, with my wisecracks. I told the time
to recess by watching the advance of a shadow along the baseboard.
Like a prisoner. :"Now, here's my plan." It was hopeless.
I just had to outgrow it. In the 7th grade, Mr. Matiwy talks us
tumbling. Huh? WTF, Chief. What the fuck.
I remember nylon shirts. No ironing.
I remember home permanents.
This was before TV dinners.
This was before women worked.
They didn't deserve a break yet.
Break--they had half the money
and all the pussy. Notes From Underground
is like a cross between Factotum and Women.
With Pulp thrown in. Hey, Ma--I'm dying here.
He wants his mother.