Those who can't....

 
The thing about being a teacher reflects what my father told me a million times.
Those who can, do, those who can't teach.
But those who learn are incredible, their evolution is divine.
And although I struggle with feelings of being no one or nothing,
I see value in what they take.
I have become a gardener of ideas.
I have recycled and pieced together many crazy ideas.
My students have taught me more than I could have ever learned by myself.
I see my biases and my disgusting laziness of thought.
Most of them are smarter than me.
Some of them appear godlike. And If i wasn't born with the right language in my mouth.

I might just have become the nothing that I was taught I was. In the place I was raised.
A negative on society.
An addict.
A tax.
A vandal.

As I couldn't fit in, isn't it justified I became a teacher.

Ring leader

 Lambert creek
venemous caterpillar
Oak that trembles in winter
Unwilling to shed leaves
Feeding the prefrost pests

Cursing the land
as the boy in the sandpit
Tightens his jacket in gale
Positions his soldier figurines

Citizen salt
Ash and so hygienically clean
Not a leaf brown or rusted
Litters the street

Sitting on the Thonet
Contemplating 
scribbling in black book
Pondering excrutiating death

Rallying the restless
Harnessing their inadequacies
Into a tangible hate refined arcane
rehearsing for the scourge

Noble Aim Conundrum

 The intoxication of social prestige
 Pushed the prosperous to kill 
Their original altruistic goals
Overidden by an indulgnet sense of power

The group convinced of their modis
From pew to tank pray mantis divine
New found authority
A strange cull is undertaken

Armed to punish the world
According to their doctrine
The victims all happenstance pedestrians
Suffering and dying at their hands

The social prestige pushing them to do their worst,
predators for recognition
Shaping their words to sculpt
the uneasy realities of their atrocities

From the inside

 Beating your head on the inside of the door
locked in and subject to the reoccuring frustrations
The door is too thick
straightjacket unwilling
banging and banging

No resolve
No relief
No reprieve

The thick wood and brick
Sealed within
A tomb
Asylum mania
Brain damage
Skull fractures

Beneath the castle

 I was born into a prison
Floor strewn with hay
No guard outside the bars
Just a servant to poke food through at the end of the day

Mother's face
Forbidden legacy
Kept in secret 
in captivity

Bars thin but unbreakable
unrustable
The skin sweat coating
from long hours of reflection

of incarceration
of keeping my small body strong
In the still air of the dungeon
Beneath

Rest stops, homesteads and Arnold Sage

 She drove me to the moutain retreat in texas transpecos.
The heat of summer still heating the highway there. 
Sarah conner scenic.
She changed gears as we got to the foothills.
Would show me the big vegetable garden.
And teach me a thing or two about gardening there.

The day clear as a linda hamilton apron.
Pre egg insertion.
Jenny turned to me and asked-
"Rest stop?"
I nodded slowly distracted by the ponderosas.
The brakes slowly squeaked.
A concrete structure appeared over the rise.

A steel skeleton stood propped up next to the seven eleven sign.
A mother and her Furlong in a stroller walked briskly past.
Light purple flowers hung from the texas Arnold sage bushes.
Massive bulging branches holding thick bracts of flowers.
Each one being targeted by drone like bees.

"How did you know, that was there?"
"I could see it in my mind." Jenny said
A small convenience shop and bathrooms came into view.
Snacks and relief later back into those foothills.
Climbing just high enough to see the vegetation change.
There is it was the smile on her face told me.
Pulling in to a narrow dusty driveway.

Old train station of purgatory

 The old train station sitting in the forest
The roof gray damp and gathering moss
The southern side in shade
Old graffiti faded barely readable
Each letter a latent spirit hanging
Draping down in different uneven shapes
Eyes squint to decipher them

Morning trades places with afternoon
It all merges again into a different form
Extending like icicles pointing down
Cold and accusing
The ferns at the base of the wall
Curl up to keep fronds from touching

The empty small building
Waiting to be inhabited