This poem is not literally about parenting, it's about producing art and poetry and my role as the author/artist in the presentation of the works.
A friend once called me
in so many words
"an irresponsible parent.”
And I am.
I let fly the words of a moment
inseminated on the page,
borne out of a printer
taped on a wall
in a bathroom
near the sink.
I keep them there for now.
But sometimes I take them out for a spin,
put them on around town;
people quack and laugh and quake.
and they say
"you know, that’s pretty good."
But he doesn’t think so,
He thinks instead
"She's an irresponsible parent."
and I am.
Is it wretched? Is it wrong?
Yes, yes its is.
And as a parent I haven’t yet grown.
I think the key step in recovery is acceptance,
I can accept and acknowledge now.
But I don’t have the time to change.
My body is dragged on a chain
dragged through the mud and rain
college shit and dental school
all the time starving and scratching for some muddled piece of clarity.
the next eight years of my life are planned and packed-
None of it involves parenting.
Basically my complaint here is that in order to make truly thoughtful works of art that are worthy of praise I need more time to devote to learning the finer elements of these mediums in detail and until then I know some people will not respect me as an artist.