Not About Me
by Jon Sands
My voice does not sing along with Billy Joel in the shower. It does
not paint the bathroom ceiling in the delicious murder of high notes.
I do not repeatedly talk myself along city sidewalks as if words hold
the ability to propel my body faster. I do not read unbelievable
pieces of literature, each line 3 or 4 times, terrified everyone gets it
but me. I do not then make reference to how the story captured me,
how it has forever influenced my further artistic movements. I am not
the white boy of your loose tongue – the impersonal, all-encompassing,
white boy – not me. I do not sing, never. I am not human. I do not watch
a blue-jeaned hip twist to the beat of a stoplight on 17th street, do not feel
the whistle and spit already bubble in my throat. I do not speak, but
when I do, I am not afraid my eyes have shown too much. I have not
wrapped myself completely around what you think of me. I have never
been persuaded to love without condoms. I never called it love when it
should have been called penis. Called it love when it should have been
called lonely. Called it love when it should have been called trying-too-
hard. My outer layer does not mask my secrets well. I do not feel secrets
pressing the walls of my throat. I have never allowed ugly words to
crawl inside my cheeks, then splatter across walls. I will not sing. I will
never be a singer. I never named this voice beautiful. Never imagined
the sky was a goal we could accomplish. I never thought we were the
sky. People will always people. We do not name ourselves potential.
Our skin is only a collection of cells. I do not name myself solution.
Accountable is not a line in this story. Gravity will always keep us stuck
to this floor. These bones don’t want out of this skin. I do not wish to
unlock my ribcage, say, Look – I made this. I do not bleed. I am giving
you the entire story. You have already leafed through my pages. You
have seen the whole show. Your approval is not my concern. I am not
afraid to speak like there is something at stake. I am not afraid to finish
this poem. This poem is not about me. I do not want you to listen. I am
not afraid. I am not afraid. I am not afraid. Afraid not I am. Afraid not
am I. Not afraid I am. I do not bleed. I am not human. I am not here.
not paint the bathroom ceiling in the delicious murder of high notes.
I do not repeatedly talk myself along city sidewalks as if words hold
the ability to propel my body faster. I do not read unbelievable
pieces of literature, each line 3 or 4 times, terrified everyone gets it
but me. I do not then make reference to how the story captured me,
how it has forever influenced my further artistic movements. I am not
the white boy of your loose tongue – the impersonal, all-encompassing,
white boy – not me. I do not sing, never. I am not human. I do not watch
a blue-jeaned hip twist to the beat of a stoplight on 17th street, do not feel
the whistle and spit already bubble in my throat. I do not speak, but
when I do, I am not afraid my eyes have shown too much. I have not
wrapped myself completely around what you think of me. I have never
been persuaded to love without condoms. I never called it love when it
should have been called penis. Called it love when it should have been
called lonely. Called it love when it should have been called trying-too-
hard. My outer layer does not mask my secrets well. I do not feel secrets
pressing the walls of my throat. I have never allowed ugly words to
crawl inside my cheeks, then splatter across walls. I will not sing. I will
never be a singer. I never named this voice beautiful. Never imagined
the sky was a goal we could accomplish. I never thought we were the
sky. People will always people. We do not name ourselves potential.
Our skin is only a collection of cells. I do not name myself solution.
Accountable is not a line in this story. Gravity will always keep us stuck
to this floor. These bones don’t want out of this skin. I do not wish to
unlock my ribcage, say, Look – I made this. I do not bleed. I am giving
you the entire story. You have already leafed through my pages. You
have seen the whole show. Your approval is not my concern. I am not
afraid to speak like there is something at stake. I am not afraid to finish
this poem. This poem is not about me. I do not want you to listen. I am
not afraid. I am not afraid. I am not afraid. Afraid not I am. Afraid not
am I. Not afraid I am. I do not bleed. I am not human. I am not here.
Passover (or Thursday)
by Jon Sands
I ate a burrito for dinner tonight.
My family rearranged the entire
Jewish calendar for Passover
to fall on a weekend.
It was more convenient for us.
We treat our Jewish like a distant cousin
we invite to weddings and reunions
where it sits at a corner table,
finishes the potatoes while the rest of us
electric slide into another cocktail.
I never thought to count, but if I had,
I imagine I could say I have gone 94 days
without my Judaism being a factor.
Moses carried the Israelites
through the Egyptian desert for 40 years.
When I recite from a Haggadah, the part
that gets me is— the children of Israel
have read this document for more
than two millennium. I am a Gemini. I am
Vegetarian. I am a Poet. I am Jewish.
I have procured so many definitions
it’s a wonder I fit in my apartment. I once asked
a gentile who had been my girlfriend for seven months
(over a Caesar salad) if she believed Jesus Christ
died for her sins. I don’t remember
if it was Sunday. But if it was, we had spent
the entire morning wrapped around each others’ limbs
like rope. Ultimately, she said yes. Then we went
to the movies, or a park bench, or we didn’t go
anywhere. We never thought to discuss it again.
My family rearranged the entire
Jewish calendar for Passover
to fall on a weekend.
It was more convenient for us.
We treat our Jewish like a distant cousin
we invite to weddings and reunions
where it sits at a corner table,
finishes the potatoes while the rest of us
electric slide into another cocktail.
I never thought to count, but if I had,
I imagine I could say I have gone 94 days
without my Judaism being a factor.
Moses carried the Israelites
through the Egyptian desert for 40 years.
When I recite from a Haggadah, the part
that gets me is— the children of Israel
have read this document for more
than two millennium. I am a Gemini. I am
Vegetarian. I am a Poet. I am Jewish.
I have procured so many definitions
it’s a wonder I fit in my apartment. I once asked
a gentile who had been my girlfriend for seven months
(over a Caesar salad) if she believed Jesus Christ
died for her sins. I don’t remember
if it was Sunday. But if it was, we had spent
the entire morning wrapped around each others’ limbs
like rope. Ultimately, she said yes. Then we went
to the movies, or a park bench, or we didn’t go
anywhere. We never thought to discuss it again.
Jon Sands is a recipient of the 2009 New York City-LouderARTS fellowship grant, and he has represented New York City multiple times at the National Poetry Slam, subsequently becoming an NPS finalist. He has performed and facilitated workshops with university and arts organizations throughout North America and is currently the Director of Poetry and Arts Education Programming at the Positive Health Project, a syringe exchange center located in Midtown Manhattan, as well as a Youth Mentor with Urban Word-NYC. His poems have appeared in decomP, Suss, The Literary Bohemian, Spindle Magazine, The November 3rd Club, and others. He is also one-fourth of the nationally acclaimed electricity-fest, The SpillJoy Ensemble. He lives in New York City, where he makes better tuna salad than anyone you know.