mr. parker

my art teacher

the man listened

looked at what I did

sure there were other kids there

making better representations

in life sketches & paint

while I flung down

trying to force fat fingers

shape stuff from my head

& this cat got it

understood the frustration

of getting it down

the ideas vision

even if the flesh was weak

he was willing to follow

& that was good for a while

but like all jealous lost adults

children have to have hierarchy

& they thought themselves

better than me

surrounded the artist

to let no one else in

looking over their shoulders

thinking only they

could love the man

needed the attention he had

as ideology

did not set out

to be the enemy

but somewhere she got told

with obvious certainty

as a man

I was the problem

& worse

she would be the victim

& that mindset

is a trap

of the first order

any kindness is enticement

all cruelty holds the idea true

& who has the patience

the time the energy

to wear down

such sad thoughts?

far easier

to find another whose ideas

are their own

not thrown

as ideology

always something

I read too much

drank the same

wrote too often

slept late alike

shouted wrong answers

at quiz shows on the tv

had pretensions of ideas

begged stolen of course

above my lowly station

as nothing was right

in this deserted old head

spend time thinking of other

than them

& still they’d offer cool love

drag me off to bed

& I’d leave them slowly

or with the whipcrack

of a late hour slamming door

if I was never right for them

just how could they love

hold me tight in the night

if I was such a dead hearted

half crazed slow witted boor?

I burned through them baby

there with my youth

energy ideas & looks

all on my side

like a knife through butter

nothing taken or given

just excitement

lust love sex


each of us accepting rejecting

moving on to other newer times

& now I hear one has gone

taken by death silence

no more shining in the sun

& I couldn’t ask for details

burn or burial

to think of that beauty

twisted & torn

no chance now for apologies

forgive me’s for being young


that everything would continue

in the way life had always done

the white buck said

dangerous to think

nothing survives scrutiny

it is dangerous to think

find understanding

in this constructed world

where everything is fodder

to the entertainment industry

fashion politics music

anything you can name

becomes the guff on your tv

second sellers of ideas slogans

to be drip fed from silver screens

where nothing is what

you think it is

once you drill down

below the surface

beware Alice

the white buck said

if you go down

the rabbit hole

& decide to think a little

there will be no return