Space ninjas. Enough said.

Monday, a handful of former students and I got together
in Room 13, my room
to say a sort of goodbye, but mostly to welcome
next chapters
new beginnings and
adventures.

One of the former students who participated
was among my first group of seniors at FALA
she did an impersonation of how I taught, which involved
me frantically pacing the room and gesticulating
and she said she would watch the thick lenses of my glasses
and my eyes
getting bigger and smaller as I paced
from one side of the room
to the other.

We read some short poems, some quotes about “endings”
and about “beginnings.” I told the former students in my room
that they have been part of my life’s
greatest adventure.

I meant that.

A great, big unexpected
adventure — from my marriage to Sarah to
my move to Flagstaff to
my career as a high school teacher (which I never
thought I wanted
to be).

We wore masks. We distanced, mostly.
We could not hug, so we did air hugs instead,
hoop shaped gestures in the air, like we were
mimicking giant breasts or big bellies.
I fucking hate COVID.

And some of the students hung around
while I wolfed down an egg and potato burrito
on a blue picnic bench outside the art room.

As of today, Sarah and I still do not have a place in Tucson.

Now we’re looking “further out,” away from downtown, from
the city proper and closer, I guess, to the suburbs (but not IN
the suburbs because honestly think I could not take that).

As I’ve told a number of folks recently, deep down
inside of me
there is what one might call a
“basic bitch” (it’s not very nice, but serves its linguistic purpose)
and she’s not a Karen, but she’s definitely someone who
just wants central air and a fucking dishwasher and is that
too much to ask for? Aren’t in-unit washers and dryers, thermostat
controlled air, and granite kitchen countertops part of my promised
American Dream?

I don’t want to hand wash another dish in my life.
I know this is probably an impossible wish.
I don’t want to be too hot in my own home — which maybe
makes it all the more foolish that I should be moving
to Tucson. I don’t want to drive my laundry to another place
and use quarters like I’m at some fucking 1980s arcade
in order to wash my clothing.

Basically, I almost never leave my house (except for when I do) and
I just want some contemporary amenities and I really don’t care if that means
we have to drive to coffee houses and hipster “gastropubs.” I want
a pool that I can swim in whenever I like, but don’t have to maintain.
I don’t want mice.

Know what I mean? If so,
the basic bitch in me recognizes
the basic bitch in you.

Or maybe when we get into our forties
we’re just done with being broke and with
everything around us being
broken — not just other people, but
light switches, doors, toilets . . .

On another topic: are we basically
going to let Trump, like some crazed ape,
just go on and destroy our country with
his loser ass temper tantrum? Isn’t there someone
or something that can stop him? A committee?
A subsection of congress? Superman? Anyone?

[Sidebar: funniest unintendedly-funny scene in a movie is in Superman II.

These people are eating in a diner, watching television, and
their programming is interrupted by a “Special Report”
— that’s what we used to call “Breaking News” —
in which the president is seen in the Oval Office, being
held hostage by violent space ninjas (or the Eurythmics)
and the fictional president cries out, “Superman, help me!”
And then the fucking diners JUST TURN OFF THE TELEVISION
like “well, that sucks.” And I used to think their extreme

UNDERreaction to the president screaming for help on live
television was LUDICROUS. I mean, there’s no way Americans
would be that calm/casual about something THAT fucked up, but
as I watch Americans — self implicated, too — dead-eyed stare off
as this sick man undoes our democracy, I wonder
if the creator/s of Superman II knew something
about American Apathy, that I wasn’t
aware of.]

I am tired. Tomorrow,
I drive down to the valley for
my Xgeva infusion. I’m so tired
I don’t even really remember anymore
what the Xgeva is for — bones, I think.

Once we move, I want to rest for a full
forty-eight hours, only leaving bed
to eat pizza, cannabis chocolate, grab
another beverage or pee.
As I slowly rebound
from my body’s tough several weeks,
I am reminded of how very much I

(and probably all of us)
desperately, desperately,
need to rest: take no phone calls/texts and
talk to no one for two days
rest. Two full days. That’s all.
Maybe it’s on the horizon.