Before the poetry, a brief Enterview
ShoeString:
"I was wondering if you might tell the readers a little about yourself?"
Parker:
"I was born on 10/10/68 in eastern Kentucky, and currently reside in southern Michigan. In real life I'm a sales rep. (if there's such a thing as real life). My passions are bird watching, camping, fishing, theater, writing, sex (not necessarily in that order)."
ShoeString:
"How did you get Interested in poetry?"
Parker:
"My junior high english teacher got me interested. He helped me to see the
freedom with which one could use words while expressing themselves
poetically. I then drifted away from writing for quite some time before rediscovering its joys."
ShoeString:
"In our previous correspondence you mentioned that you've been writing poetry
about five years, and yet your submission to ShoeString #2 was the first work
you ever sent anyone. Why did you wait so long before seeking publication?"
Parker:
"I don't feel as though publication is synonymous with writing. For me, the
written word is pleasure in and of itself, and a healthy form of ventilation.
When I read "The Birth Of ShoeString" on your homepage, and saw that
you felt that way as well, I was compelled to send work. I'm not really
"seeking" publication, and don't plan to submit work anywhere else."
ShoeString:
"Who, past and or present, are a few of your favorite poets?"
Parker:
"I really enjoy reading, Antler, Hayden Carruth, Billy Collins, Adelaide Crapsey,
e. e. cummings, Emily Dickinson, Russell Edson, Amy Lowell, Carl Sandberg, Renate Wood, and I could go on."
Thank you very much for your time, Parker!
And now, some P. L. W. poetry
YEA, THOUGH I WALK
To draw an hour better off than we are;
not as transients skipping across minutes.
To summon defiance as a pebble skipping
over the pond, and rise above laws of nature
to stir an effect before sinking though flung upon
inevitability, is to outfox the gods at their own game.
A NEW THRILL
Today I left work early,
and dressed up in wine and roses,
to draw romance a scented bath,
and let down its festive hair.
Upon arriving home,
I found a farmer in my bed,
eagerly planting seeds,
in the soil I'm meant to tend.
I think a better man,
would've simply turned and left,
but I am not this fine,
and stayed to become a cliche;
I completely blew my top,
and saw the color red,
the shit did hit the fan,
as I loosed the hounds of hell.
In the exuberance of my rage,
I drew a gun and shot the man,
dousing with his blood,
the flames that licked my spine.
And now I'm very pleased,
with this act I have performed,
it was truly quite exciting,
a new thrill I'd never known.
I know i'll kill again,
I very simply must,
for they said, "You really nailed it!",
and I'm now a member of the cast.
AND ON THE SEVENTH DAY
I purchased my position regarding innocent infringements,
for tomorrow is a rigorous name.
There were families of imagination standing,
learning to themselves, believing,
busily omitting everyday life's evolution of duplicate issues.
Crucial I suppose, asleep nonetheless. (Selah)
A pulpit professional fondling carnality with no grasp of his own expertise.
It was difficult to hear his words above the din;
the sound of cups runnething over with credulity.
And as I sat, I saw a vision; the exhausted form of the hunter Esau.
He proceeded to ask me, "Do you understand now?",
and I answered, "Yes.", for I found myself willing to sell all,
to have just one bowl of something strengthening.
And as he pointed toward the door, the exit became utterly resplendent,
enticing me to leave and go search for Jacob.
ANTINOMY
The cadent ache of distance,
complicated exits posturing as
boisterous as growing. Spring
has no mouth to speak, its
dappledawn emotion concealing
the tongue like a beded fawn.
The tenderly driven fury bristled
within flesh sutures one day to
the next, yet fear, non-
filling and messy like cotton candy
sticks to the sweaty palm's
rationalizations, humiliating zealot
and agnostic alike. Summer thoughts
slip on the tongue at the speed of feeling
to lie prone on marble excuses hard
as judgement. In the voluminous
antinomy of the riddle, the snowflakes
(so alike/so unique) of humanity
melt in the heat of global warring
puzzled by eternity's arrogance,
as the harsh glare of mortality
reflecting off existence, blinds
compassion thoroughly enough
that butchered children appear as
symmetrical as impartiality. Each
side of a word has serrated edges
causing all the more damage when
ripped from interpretation to arrive
stretched out, washed back on the
shore of suspicion... the redundancy
of the waves! Lo, Shakespeare's rub
hunkers in the dim of Eliot's shadow,
hoping Ezra's immorality can
charm the tear for just one day.
SATURDAY MORNING
Last night we conversed between sheets,
saying all there was to say without a word spoken.
Now, I pretend to be asleep as you stealth toward the door.
I hear it close, then roll over and grab the remote.
Porky Pig appears... "Abiddy, abiddy, abiddy, that's all folks!".
I doubt either of us could have said it any better.
SOCIETAL FAD
Who am I, I wonder, I doubt that I am constant.
I study leaves singing in their summer of mirth,
Then same branch barren proclaiming winter's full worth,
And I ask, "Is my persona foliage for every season?"
Who am I, I wonder, I doubt that I am constant.
I watch clouds climbing high upon insistent sunlit thermals,
Then see them stumble helplessly in hues of evening purple,
And I ask, "Is personalism more than cultural vapor?"
Who am I, I wonder, I doubt that I am constant.
I see how vernal streams devour adjoining yards and fields,
Then watch the hands of summer pat their beds down hard as steel,
And, I must ask, "Would not a different flow of time make me a different person?"
Who am I, I don't wonder, for I know I am not constant.
I'm merely a fleeting fad in a moment of time,
My name is circumstance.
RUB
Hollow stubborn rhythm,
tireless whimper against my breast,
like yesterday's and tomorrow's tyrant,
is your continuous rise and fall.
The intractable days are but sorrow's cohorts,
yet you seek no consensus for your daily reverie.
What is the empire your proud eyes fashion,
what splendid anthem haunts your ears,
that you should bite the soul that feeds you,
bequeath yet betray in same sharp timing?
Listen oh hectic rogue, do give audience to a dispirited cry.
Concoct please, one beaker of elixir from your vital quarts,
that I may numb your maniacal compulsion.
For look, the years have embalmed your vascular commotion,
and happiness exists only in a Book of fairytales.
Tell me, would rousing me in the morn
be anything more than a fallen angel's amusement?
I implore you, consider please, sleeping in.
EVOLUTION
The state of delirium borders Maryland.
No wait I'm mistaken, that's Delaware,
delirium borders every state,
no matter how immovable its brow.
That is the patient distinction,
the superiority of history,
the clamor of humanity over beast of field,
as the infinitesimal posture of matter
succumbs to the extravagance of individual nature.
Indeed, no other creature has such highly developed dementedness.
WEE HOURS
You continue folding relationships together,
as though expecting some sort of origami happiness,
only to show up here in the wee hours
complaining about paper flowers that have no fragrance.
You seem to mistake me for Moses,
somehow believing I can part your legs,
then miraculously guide you through the depths of your emptiness.
Yet mine is a staff without divine backing,
and has no authority concerning matters of deliverance.
My very dear friend,
stop relying on serpents to show you what life is withholding from you.
Then you shall harvest the true fruit of knowledge.
Then you shall empower yourself.
Then you shall stop the river from running red.
THE MOST TRUTHFUL WORD
The most truthful word
I ever heard
Was indeed a lie
For it spoke so plain
Of whence it came
There was no remaining guise
FORTITUDE :
To torch every death-scented battlement
with the burning blisters of three time clocks
and breech all of life's heavily armed walls
to raise three children after the death of one's husband.
I love you, Mom!
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