Master Baiter

If Shawn Shannon wasn't the biggest pain in the ass pupil I ever encounterred he was, as they say, amongst them.

Shawn was passive agressive and sneaky. He had a grin that said "You're full of shit". He grinned a lot. He used his grin as bait.

Shawn was a master baiter.

Here's an example.

I started off the class by reminding everybody that the desktops were clean and I wanted them to stay that way. Back in those days desktops were desktops.

Nobody had a problem with that.

Shawn grinned.

I was coming off a poetry writing jag of my own so I was in my rhapsodic mood.

I began talking about the wonders of poetry.

The freedom of poetry.

The opportunity for fearless self expression.

The metaphor of the poet writing his poems on the lotus flower and sendiong it down the Nile to be discovered or undiscovered.

It doesn't make any difference the paper you use, the quality of the parchment, the size of the paper.

It doesn't matter if anybody reads it or not.

Your poem belongs to you and if the world get hold of it all the better but it's the moment of authentic creation, the purity of that moment that resonates and lives forever.

Blah blah.

Spraying and praying, hoping something sticks with somebody.

All during this "lesson" I noticed Shawn was seemingly paying attention, taking notes even. I was shocked into believing there was a connection.

With two minutes left in the class, I noticed that the "notes" that Shawn was taking were defacing the prieviously immaculate desk . He was scribbling all over the paper free top.

With great intensity and concentration.

I headed back to his seat...last desk all the way to the right.

As I approached, I expected him to slow down.

He speeded up.

One minute left in the class.

"Shawn what are you doing to that desk?"

He looked up alll innocence and light.

I took a look at the desk upon which he had been scribbling.

The desk was completely clean.

Sean continued to scribble.

I noticed that he had a little tiny piece of paper of the tip of his pen.

Tiny.

Exactly enough to cover the tip of the pen.

I was baffled.

I repeated "Shawn what are you doing?".

He looked up all serious and studious.

Everybody in the class was looking at us.

He removed the paper from the tip of the pen and replied.

"I'm writing a poem"

He burst into his shit eating grin.

The bell rang. Class was over.

As I write these very words so many years later, I realize I am immortalizing Shawn and his microscopic poem poem and so are you if you've read this far. It's impossible to unread.

Perhaps, this is art.