While monks convene—five minutes
every Wednesday morning
after convocation—we young boys sit
in rooms with crotchety radiators,
waiting to be taught The Word.
There’s gossip about who’s being recruited,
debate of top ten emcees of all time,
traded theories on why
the Knicks will never win another one—
shouldn’t have signed
for the big money.
A twenty-two inch tv/vcr hybrid
mounted above the black board
temps as an authority figure.
Fatir, whose attendance column
reads like a totem of L’s, darts through
the pistachio-green room with a black rectangle
which he slides into the set’s mouth.
His hands slap POWER, PLAY and he’s gone
snickering down the hall.
Out of fuzz and sound like hard rain comes
brown bodies. It looks like birth—
screams and sweat on skin.
But something is going in, two briars of hair
mash each other as the camera pans out.
Fr. Matthew steps in class, his hair made
whiter by the sound. We boys want to fly,
sing out Fatir did it, but
each arrested in learning how