Awoo, Awoo!] DPS

Tonight, tonight, we run barefoot among the trees, hooting and hollering like olden time Indians – these are our sacred grounds. Awoo, awoo, we call out to the Gods above us, awoo, awoo. Can you hear us now? Can you feel us within your bones, shaking the earth and letting loose our pack-life calls, we are a herd of wild dogs meandering about, freer than we've been in days, weeks, years ever. They tell us in school to abide by the scoundrel rules, to tarnish our imaginations by conforming to the ideals of a nation that doesn't have what is best in mind for it's people, and to that I say, to that I say - I spit on the ground dramatically, watch it as it soaks the earth, bubbling, now futile as to what it's purpose is. Just further connecting me to the soil. Take me, and understand that I wish to be apart of the earth I've grown up in.

Last night, I watched the travesty of a ticking clock, the piercing strike of every decayed minute without attempting to fall into a deep slumber - it was pointless. My surroundings were blatant, fixed points that were there purposely for the sake of pleasing an ultimate Godly figure. Much like teenagers whose parents don't want them to grow up, my room is symbolic of a child meant to be destined for eternal bloodshed. I can count six weapons just on the back of my door. Dust collects memories, and yet everything is splattered with polish, the eternal reminder that every day is new and fresh - and each blade can wipe away it's sins with just a splash. That's where my secret collections run supreme, beneath a broken floorboard creaks the only secrets that allow themselves to be kept. Situated beneath a land of plastic is a world of decadence. (Here sits a book, read it please - "One Hundred Greatest Poems of All Time, a collection by Keating", sounds good, doesn't it? What do you think? I think - lovely, isn't it.) Rotting in horror and devastation, yellow tinged and greedy with good stains. Ripped scriptures and careless page folds, the first reading is ripped aside from the first line.

'If you are a dreamer, come in.' I let myself enter metaphorical doorways with rickety door handles and creaking hinges, I imagine there are brown chips of paint missing from it's face - this is what character looks like. Reflective surfaces portray the unbelievable doubt that lingers within the souls of restless children - the clock strikes nine in the morning, ring ring ring. An owl burrows himself in his nest in the ground, much like me with my pillow but doubtless I have gotten used to escaping from holes with treatments that are holier than God himself. Time trickles down my wrists, small patterns are etched in my forearm indicating that it is (slash, slash, slash) three o'clock, when I finally escape from the institution of international corruption.

"Awoo! Awoo!" Hear me, my pack of sheepish cowards - counting sheep to sleep is arbitrary, tell me all the ways you call kill someone above the chest. Teaching me is pointless, I am lone and free of thought. (Either jugular, just a quick slash and they're done for - for sure.) Textbooks are cheap, a cheat code for the excuses for educators in our system. My bones are tired as hell, flipping through the malignant tumours of my day, then picking them off like burs when they grow too heavy. (A strong bash to the nose is absolutely fatal if you know how to do it properly, I do.) If only the burs weren't situated, attached to my broken off-beat excuse for a heart - locked on to the stronger side of my lungs. A simple cough could blow them away, I think - but I'm already sick enough. (Stab through the eyes, quick and simple, goes straight to the brain.) Mr. and Mrs. Whitz, he's a very strong student, but I feel like he would succeed much better if he only concentrated a little bit more, he seem a little bit - well, how do I put it? Distant. Yes, distant that's it. Bruises lined my eyes, a feature on springs most beautiful colours for beatings and bruisings. (Ears, same deal as the brain, come on get a little more original.) I count bells like I count sheep, waiting for the moments when

I

can

run

away. Watch me. Awoo, awoo.

Lights flash up like highways, paths are seen for miles with no real knowing of where to go and where to stop. Broken branches are limbs of those who told us that we are useless and meaningless, tell that to the nature that surrounds me - here I am kind. I feel the crown sit upon my head, the thrown sits in my silver tongue - I came to the forest in order to learn how to live once again, and I found it! Do you hear me father? Listen in! It is right here, with dirt between my toes, paint twisted across my visage in terrible spirals, hooting and hollering coming to attention. Off in the distance, the flashing of lights is an indication of the further sight my brethren need but it is alright, after all, they will all come along some day, learn the ways I feel. Freedom comes at the price of letting go of what you formally know and embracing the fact that society is not yours for the taking, what's yours for the taking lies in the promises you keep in the world.

I told my father three lies tonight:

One, last night I finished my essay on how to kill a man with a club - I swear father, it's probably an A at least.

Two, tonight? Oh, I'm teaching a couple of the amateurs how to fight, community service, you know?

Three, yes, I love you too.

Much like the poet Shel Silverstein I look eternally for the edge of the world - find where I can wrap my dirt-soaked toes around the broken cement and debate falling (falling, falling, falling, falling, falling, falling, falling) into the unknown. For I no longer fear it. Once I travelled the beaten path with worn down dirt, fiddling with my coat pockets to make sure they were all tucked in, crying when I tumbled over and became a mess. This is no longer where I lie. My place is at the edge - the edge of the forest with my brothers babbling off incoherently and making love to the air of the night, suave and sophisticated. Brave, true bravery; not that of knights, but that of those who are able to solve without bloodshed.

Awoo, awoo - we amass around a series of old broken trees, the lip of a cave mouth, eating us whole, consuming our very likelihood - yes the perfect place to sit around and -

I take a drag of a cigarette because I know my father will hate it, lighting it with a match, letting the wind blow out the fire and the long drag of smoke twist up and around the current. "Hey, Asa - light the fire please." The strike pack flies through my hands, travels much less fluidly, much less complete - if this was to kill me one day, I wouldn't mind if only to read the language that it gives me. Everything in the world has a story, some prettier than others it was just up to the world to stop and listen. The world never stopped. So we convene, meet in the dark, with flashlights and campfires and tell our stories through spoken word. Treat each stranger like a brother in arm, link arms and holler and snap at the justice with each syllable.

I never learned what

a haiku was until I saw

a bird flying south.

That's when I understood that nature lives within us, that stories need to be told. Toss my cigarette aside, there was a time to die slowly - but now was a time to live, smoke lives through the fire that provides our warmth. Dull chatter whispers into my ears, I can't hear the conversations, the small hoots of success from Asa who has successfully lit the fire, the dull disinterest of Nuwanda - it's there, I think - but so are the stars. "Listen up boys, listen up." Awoo, awoo, I call my brethren, let them soak on my words. Tonight, tonight is not about me, no sir, but it is up to me to lead it, twist words around the open flame and explain to them what is in store. "I hereby reconvene the Dead Poet's Society." I know the smile cracks across my face, thoughtfully - it is there for once, instead of the dull smirk of slight satisfaction, I feel truly alive here tonight. "Thought I'd start, ya'know with a quote - thought it'd be cute to open up all meetings like this. The guy," the book slides effortlessly from my bag, the spine tingles open crackling like an open flame, lights beam across our faces - stars, moon, flashlights, fire, the book - there were many guided stars tonight. "Keating, he had it highlighted as important, it's by Thoreau, Henry David Thoreau that is." I clear my throat, lower it, maybe it's to sound more serious, but I - it's a reading voice.

"I came to the forest to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life. To put to rout all that was not life, and not, when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived." This is where we were. "Now I thought, you know - we could all read something we come up with, or make something up on the spot if you want, I'm all for a good improvisation. I just got a couple of rules," I hated to be the rulebook here, but there needed to be a set, like commandments. "One, we respect each other's work no matter what. Two, we don't speak of this place at all - except to those who want to know how to truly live. And finally, we promise to live freely and not by the stupid school shit." There are better, more fluent words than shit, I'm sure - but it just felt so right.

I imagine that the puffs of smoke still linger above my head, intertwining and dancing with the serenities of the fire in front of me - a crumples piece of paper reveals itself from my jean pocket, hidden from the rest, I find my world on the inside of this piece of paper. Like a dream, the world in front of me came into existence, everything so deliberate yet so unprepared. Many dreams were filled with the hopes of chopping the chains of my broken toes, of untethering from the birds cage that I've been kept in, but here it is. "I figured none of you would want to read, so I uh -" flipping the paper in my hands, shaking it so hard, maybe the words would tumble right out and speak them for me, "well I wrote something, a haiku, here it goes." Like a long drag of a cigarettes, breath catches just in my throat waiting to escape, twisting along with the cursive writing I read:

"i found my final

place of rest, hidden below

the herd of oak trees."

If you are a dreamer, come in. If there is a world beyond the jail-cell, golden bars that lock you in - you are welcome, come in.

Come in, come in, welcome to the Dead Poets Society, my friends.

Welcome.

Awoo, awoo.