By Dana Mazur
I still have so many questions for Les. Still such hunger for his check marks.
For his comments “Cliché” or “Not clear.”
I must know am I a real writer? When ALREADY will I be celebrated as such?
He crosses out the entire page. “You don’t need the tedious introductions “– he writes, — “paraphrase the minutia.”
I ask why the class has to end? Why we all must eventually part ways?
He pencils in, “Some business here”.
I need to know why the deeply warped comes out so beautiful?
His comments: “Good” and even “Very good.”
The most important question is how can he be this generous when he himself has so little? This life-affirming, when himself in constant doubt?
He scribbles on a side “Huh?”
During the break in the bathroom the women of top-notch sophistication twist their poisonous-glorious Salome lips, and one by one confide in me, “I have a thing for Les.”
I shrug — “Everybody does. It’s like a Point of View.”
Ridicules toothless man has nothing and everything
Just for one page, double-spaced.
Rich as a king, the coffers of his tattered JanSport backpack brim with handouts: a poem from a classic here, a chapter from a language hooligan there (the complete nutrition for an aspiring author). Everybody clutches a copy, holding it to the chest.
I’ve never known that a slanted Xerox can make people look so stunning, so fat with beauty and meaning.
He showers us with the gold and silver pieces — Hershey’s Kisses — nothing’s sweeter than the learned freedom to be my truest self from 7pm to 10pm.
Minus the cost of parking.
In the car, under the magic yellow light and the mechanical moans of the opened door I hunch over his comments, trying to discern the scrawled verdict.
In sharp pencil glows his royal seal — “Swell.”