Do I contradict myself?

I’m no Walt Whitman.

And every atom that belongs to me,

You don’t want belonging to you.  

Nuclear cervix and ticking clock,

a mind too full to think. 

My eyes observe no blades of grass,

and I don’t go without shoes. 

                                       My toiling feet walk hard concrete--

                              a crowded platform--where oily beasts of life,

claw at my nerves, pushing me to a three o’ clock threshold.

I keep moving, keep working--keep dreading.

What else is there but this wheel of semesters?

I preach poets and prophets--

                                                                                sing songs of syntax.

I hear American schools screaming their individual song of fuck. 

I’m no mason, carpenter, or seamstress.

I’m the mule of the world.

I am woman--a fiery ball of anxiety,

gripping steering wheel, holding a cup of whoop-ass,

tailing a yellow school bus--heading straight to hell. 

My song screeches across the chalkboard.

I am teacher.