Third Grade Rules

Third grade rules. They sound simple and really, one does not
have to be a brainiac in order to understand them. Although one learns them in the third grade, they remain valid though the rest of one's life.

Rule#1:  Making something you want yours.
In order to make something you want yours, simply spit all over it. Trust me, no one else will want it. And it will be yours for the rest of your existence.  

Rule#2:  Making someone it.
In order to make someone it, simply take your index finger and poke the person you want to be it. Then say "You're it". Then, they will be it.

To do it with someone you want to be yours. First, spit all over them. Then make them it. Then you can do it with the one who is yours. Do you see now how simple life can be just by applying the rules of the third grade. I hope I have helped clarify things for the better of everyone. There is no need to thank me and have a great summer.

your poet

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It's Impolite To Stare

Can a blind man
Become a poet
How can one write
about the things
they have never seen

Could a deaf man
Write poetry
How could he express
the sounds of things
He has never heard

Would a dolt even think
About writing poetry
and if he COULD put down
on paper what he feels
Who on Earth would ever listen

There's a professor at Harvard
Who teaches poetry
left, write, upside down, and sideways
but, she was never
Write for me

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Thoughts on the Third Floor


Striking the keys in my notebook

I think about the syntax of my unfinished paragraph.

Research is locked inside my vault, and won’t commit itself
to paper. As I take a

breath of fresh, recycled library air, I lift my eyes beyond
my computer screen,

past the orange chair to my right

out of the long picture window, above the valley but below
the sun.


 The moisture in the air mixed with orange hues of light

 looks like me—it seems to hold thoughts of its own; thoughts
made of water that

resist the ground (but who could blame them?).

On the other hand, my pages need filling and we need the







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1:25 A.M.

Two clocks mock me.

One rests parallel to my hollow, depraved eyes, and the second has been mounted above my hollow, depraved skull. My mother, a complex saint, has always been overzealously fond of the maddening ticks and tocks of these deceiving countdowns, though for a vain, impatient, and pejorative soul as mine, the cacophonous seconds only hinder production of any worthwhile work, which may, in essence, establish my mediocrity and lethargy. 

A third fiend is mounted in an upcoming room, distant enough to avoid viewing, though I hear its jarring calls to the nearest sandman and pray that his hearing is just as keen. 

The saint prefers this inharmonious noise to any melody.

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My Mother’s owl collection


Ever since I've heard my mother talk about animals, owls have always been on her list of animals,from clothing to bed sheets; from decoration to jewelry i swear she has an owl on everything that you could imagine. is it its mystery? is it their eyes? or could it be their color? true is she’s obsessed with them. i remember asking her why she liked them so bad, she said she knew i was smart enough to figure it out so the challenge began, young and curious i asked my grandma and she said she once had one as a pet “gift from her aunt” but my grandma was afraid of it, specially the way its eyes look at you. Owls owls they look at you and haunt you it their eyes owls owls their heads turn the other way around. My mothers gets exited every time she see something with an owl, and always seems to buy it, she got this decoration tri-piece that looks so real but they’re short, i kept wondering if they were haunted. Sister you’re crazy!! my aunt used to said but last moms birthday she gift her a pair of earrings… and yeah they were about an owl. I kept reading and watching batman series, “We’re the court of owls, a secret smart society” the crime organization group said. Young and not to smart but full of curiosity i thought she’d be in an organization and it ended there. History courses spoke about secret societies such as the infamous “illuminati” and my art/literature teacher kept telling us about symbolism, how old tribes used animals, representing each one different think. doubt grew and so did curiosity. Took my butt to the internet to see if there was a symbolism at all -intelligence, brilliance, perspective, wisdom, independence, mystery, power- i felt like i finally got the right answer after all those years. Mom is it because they could represent all these things? maybe she said… they’re called mysteries because you can’t have all the answers, but you can appreciate them, theres always something else she said. I guess i’ll never know why, but i did learned that somethings are there for us to appreciate them and not to know everything about them. I guess its better to love a mystery, since curiosity keeps the fire on going, and as new stuff with Owls gets into my moms hands, my curiosity will keep on growing, maybe the owls are to my mom what my mom is to me, another great mystery.  

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Cire Luey's Utopia Factory


Welcome, children of all ages!


to Cire Luey's Utopia Factory!

I am excited

so electric --

I have invited you,

yes, specifically YOU

to tour my grand factory!

Come, come now

don't be shy!

This building was made for you

as an experiment of what we

humans can do!

So without further ado,

come in, come in!

Our first stop on the tour

is the Homo Village.

Hey, don't snicker!

That's not what this is!

We all come from the genus "Homo",

it's Latin for "Human".

Now, this Homo Village has citizens

of various ethnicities,

melanin shades, and identities!

All are neighbors and brothers...

with each other.

We've hit a snag, I must confess --

please, PLEASE

don't touch her headdress;

don't mock his routine;

watch your microagressions.

I won't be held liable for any violence. You see

these Homos, though like you

don't like you.

They've agreed to give as good as they get --

provide them respect, and you'll be welcomed;

poke and tease them, well, at your own risk.

You are outsiders

and though I vouch for you,

I will not protect you... we will lose

some of you.

So grab your belongings

and your severed pieces

while we head deeper into the factory.



This room is the Government Room:

the elders of the Homos congregate here

and determine policy.

Between you and me,

there's a bit of disruption among the ranks.

Certain tribes in the village

feel disenfranchised

and there's a well-known rumor

of corruption and lobbying.

As Deus Ex Ambassador,

I have offered my observations

of political refreshment or dissolution,

but I have been respectfully assured

the model is perfect --

it's the Homos that are flawed.

The elders blame the tribes,

the tribes blames the elders,

along with intragroup conflicts.

Please, don't sneer or roll your eyes --

whom are you to judge?

Have you seen your lives with

fresh, visiting eyes?

Now come along,

there is more to see.



Here is the Education Room,

where little Homos learn

reading, writing, arithmetic,

everything they need to participate meaningfully

in tribal society.

They also learn science,

history, politics, and basics of economy.

These... aren't as important, I think.

The little Homos show little interest

in subjects like these.

A small minority are completely enamored

and pursue secondary education,

acquiring specific tribal recognition.

But even these gifted little Homos

develop specific interests

and display understandable indifference

toward 'useless' subjects.

As ambassador

I have played voice for the offspring

expressing the facts as I objectively see them.

The parents look to the elders,

whom created education policy

and the elders disagree, respectively.

"These are well-rounded curricula,

to ensure our young grow mentally strong!

They need these skills to participate meaningfully!"

When asked if they, themselves,

remembered any elementary science

there was an uncomfortable silence.

Finally, one elder spoke up:

"Why is science important to government?"

The irony was lost in the roaring agreement,

and demonization of educators

for failing students...



Speaking of Homo economics

we're entering the Economy Room!

Here, the masters of major Homo markets

conduct business, away from the Homo villagers.

In this room, cost of goods are discussed,

currency changes hands,

markets rise and fall.

The Homo economy is modeled after

laissez faire capitalism...

in theory.

In practice, however...

certain major markets

that employ many Homos

received public funds

to cover some bad 'investments'.

The elders agreed the decision was sound

to save a market and many jobs.

When asked how this decision settles with laissez faire,

respect was dropped

and I was told to 'mind my own business'.

Again, I was discouraged away

from critiquing the system --

it was the Homos' fault; SOME Homo's fault.



The last room,

I openly admit, I am ashamed.

It was never my design

to include a prison.

The elders broke me down --

they persistently claimed

the criminals needed isolation.

I argued criminals only exist

in the presence of a state;

by this point,

the Homos no longer hid

their distaste of my observations.

"Without a state, chaos reigns.

Shall we revert to brutish


No Homo would accept

that neanderthalensis

was most likely intelligent...


I built this room to harbor

the worst of the worst.

"Not those whom are found worse than you, nor

those whose very existence may be worse for you,

or your interests."

But my warnings and objections went


This room is full BEYOND capacity.

Judges are found accepting kickbacks

for passing harsher sentences

on disenfranchised Homos.

Yet, despite this corruption

the Homo justice system is under no

investigation, with no impending reform.

This room... has no purpose

other than profit, and enslavement.

It seems you are the last ticket holder;

maybe you could fix this mess.

Your eyes lack confidence

but your heart beats


I have faith in your purity --

it reminds me of my own.

Join me in my elevator

as I show you to your throne.



The Mara

When I stare into her eyes, I see more than just glossy orbs of contrast and color. 

Something is contained deep inside her gaze,
Sometimes it speaks to me and whispers subtle hints of her life and I find myself moved in a profound way. 
Her mouth remains silent but I can always discern her mood. 
When she's passionate, they blaze and the intensity renders me all but helpless- the spell she casts without a single utterance is sheer terror, but god, I'm falling in love with the way she frays my nerves and lays waste to my heart. 
When the dark, thick cloak of tar black depression swallows her up- sometimes for months on end- her eyes become cold and distant. 
I can never see her clearly, as if a murky veil stands between myself and the pools of liquid soul I so long to dive deeply and drown in. 
What once was filled with clarity and bubbling effervescence becomes tepid standing water; when these times are upon her I find myself wondering if she'll ever come back to me as she was before.
Yet every damn time her resilience catches me by surprise, and soon I'm stranded in the middle of her island once again. 
I don't even call for help. I tear apart the raft that could bring me to shore and burn it just so I could write her name in smoke in the sky and scatter her beauty as a gift to the clouds. 
She's relentless, yet pursues in sheer silence. The pads on her feet mute her steps, but I swear I catch the low rumble of a growl as she watches my every move when I'm with her. 
I don't fear who she is, I fear the way she can make me feel utterly helpless under her curious gaze.
She has the power and crushing strength of a lioness, yet the nimble grace and innocence of a lamb bathed in the brightest white. 
I tremble with the lightest touch from her slender fingers. She could press bitter poison to my lips and I would willingly let it cascade in deathly rivers down my throat, should she only but ask it of me. 
Ever unsure if she's playing with her food before the kill, or if I'm leading a thing of docile and utter purity to the bloodstained butchers block, I hover between terror for the health of my heart, and trepidation that I'm slowly destroying something truly irreplaceable.
I cannot be sure, but this I know; she will taunt me in my dreams with her laugh twinkling like silver bells, resounding through my head- she stays my sanity better than any shrink or pill ever could, yet gives me over to another brand of mind shattering craziness. 
I've fallen in love with a siren, and I will follow her voice to the very edge of this sheer cliff, gladly throwing myself to the unknown below to the beckon of her haunting call. 

Why Is Love So Important


I love learning languages. Wisdom and knowledge matter a lot to me. And I want to escape my selfish nature. These are all good things. However, tonight I've been reading that:

Were I to speak all languages, those of men and those of angels,
Were I a prophet to understand the secrets and all knowledge,
Were I to martyr myself in destitution to the world,
In all of these things, without love I am simply nothing.

I don't always wait with patience,

and I have seen my heart become hard

or more often ache with envy.


I take pride in my demeanor, as if feigned humility could cure the human condition of arrogance.

I could go on but this is just to say too often I live with self-seeking love.

I'm sure you can relate.


I know that there is a stronger love that endures, survives, and transcends all things.

As we grow older, one day very soon all things will be held to light and the shadow be burnt away forever, like dross from gold.

What remains is ours to keep, treasure stored up in Heaven -

and among this is found faith, hope, and love.

But love is the greatest.


And without love we hold nothing.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Based off of the New Testament, including I Cor. 13.

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The Ford Mustang of my grandfather

The Ford Mustang of my grandfather

I honestly don’t know where to start; this may even be a history lesson for some as this is something that has more than 40 years. This object may be the envy of any lover of the industry of cars and specially the American Muscle because I’m going to talk you about the most popular classic, my grandfather’s Ford Mustang 67’. This nice piece of art of engineering was given to my grandfather as his eighteen year old birthday gift. He really enjoyed it during his young years and always talks about how the ladies gathered to just take a ride with him; it really made him feel like some kind of artist. Now on days you can sit with him and watch a shiny gray can in his old hands with the words “Carta Blanca” goes up and down meanwhile he tells you about how sometimes he escaped very late night from home and went to some girl’s house in his ride to pick her up and just go for some random roadtrip all night long. Well, people may wonder what happen to his jewel throughout the time, I’m going to summarize it in a short sentence: the classic was enjoyed in its days and now obsolete. This became more than just a transport media or a magnet for girls, but became like an extra limb to my grandfather. He grew up, got married, raised four kids and did all the necessary to keep the car. He left it in the garage, left it to being eaten by the dust and years. I wonder if he was thinking it may function as an ordinary food which you can left in the freezer for decades and conserve the same aspect, but for the bad luck of my grandparent, it didn’t. Today you can see it and be 100% sure it is anything but a car. The poor jewel can be described as… rotten. If you ask my grandparent he will always tell you he is working on to fix it, but you may know the answer. The strange thing is that he refuses to pay someone to fix it and he really has the money to put it up back to life and maaaaaaaybe think about letting me get my hands on it. But you have to understand this may not represent his life, but it does most of it.