Hardnosed Headmaster,
shrewd monitor
of each classroom of awareness:
Was that really you
making faces
at the earnest students,
blowing spitballs at the dharmicly correct?
Was that really you
swinging the long, stinging ruler
we call “the planets,”
whacking us
when got caught
singing this vaudeville life
like an obligatory anthem?
Shredding
in front of all our classmates
our comic book of religious conditioning–
stuffed with superheroes
“making a difference”
in a solid, undreamed world?
No matter, Headmaster,
your eccentric teaching techniques
have always been controversial;
your zeal
to produce graduates with straight-A’s
in courses like,
“The History of What Never Happened”
and
“The Psychology of Meaningless Suspense,”
famously over-the-top.
Today we ask only this:
Keep slamming your fist
on that rickety, old podium—
our heart.
Keep having the balls
to deliver
your crotchety tirade
about who we really are:
Rich kid souls
on a summer camp planet
receiving pith instruction
from advanced spiritual masters—
our boring friends.
