There was a bigshot “Educator” fellow

standing in front of me

once upon a time.

Large white bow tie strapped proudly

on with blue spot in middle.

Proud bald head a-gleaming above

the pouring pot belly, and the proud,

well-trimmed, not-so-delicately perfumed

beard, and he was going on, and on, then on,

and more on, about the super, utter importance

of “Comparative Learning Data,” whatever

the fuck that is.

And turning students into ants in the

colony, into complete and total

automatons, if possible.

And he was professing, and professing

again, his personal, private love

of the data that did this.

(He must’ve uttered it a trillion times

followed by the slickest, lip-licking

lizard grin.)

Here in the crowded conference room

(attendance required)

on another brutal Tuesday afternoon.

My brain wasn’t there, except when

he rudely yanked on it

sending it straight back down

into this deadly quagmire

of mental slavery

and spiritual dearth

not unlike

one of Dante’s worst purgatorial nightmares.

I wanted Mary Magdalene and Bob Marley,

but hell, I did my best

to block it all out and simply observe

the dying orange leaves of trees

blowing gracefully outside

open windows

in the west

of the city

with the glorious blue

of Chicago sky behind.

I thought I saw, I was, for a single second,

almost sure I espied

a squirrel

give him the finger

before disappearing into the nest

with complete disdain.

Then I was thinking

of Shelley,

the Poet, not Mary, the Novelist,

I don’t know how or why.

Shelley, on a lecture platform

(he must’ve been on one before at some point

and he was now)

trying to read his latest radical papers

to a nasty audience

who were all

bouncing

rotten fruit

in their hands

so accurate,

terrible

and true.

They were confounded by

his strongest passages,

they were bored, torn,

they wanted to take it out

on him, some started

leaving while the others began

a booing and hissing routine.

But his intense green eyes, they stared

straight down

at his papers

and his messy, unshaved, handsome face,

and his hanging brown hair

were

burning

like Joan of Arc,

contorted, embarrassed,

shocked, humiliated

by the noise

of the terrible crowd.

By the silent noise of these

“happy,” satisfied, orderly, materialistic,

secular,

ladder-climbing,

cowardly,

passive

peoples

who were now stirred up

into a murderous rage

at his merely conceiving

to be different

for even

a second at all.

The Drifter (Images provided by The Drifter)