Critics good and critics bad,
critics bright and critics dim,
critics modern and critics post—
traffic in articulation,
profess to be our salvation.

He-s and she-s just like me,
perhaps,
with great responsibilities.
For with their words, which are many,
they mold and shape our thoughts, though few,
mindless folk without a clue.

De-centered,
De-constructed,
there to find and to discover
lost readings of my past.
My childhood called to task?

Winnie the Pooh is not my friend
and Scooby Doo becomes suspect.
For de-centered and de-constructed
these names derive from feces, so I am told.
Winnie the Poop and
Scooby Doo Doo is what we get.
Are these really their theses?

Authors dead or lay dying.
Cannons rebuked, and cannons fired.
Readers’ response is all the rage.
Why write a work, a poem, or play?
Chaos rules! Relativity reigns!
Hopeless children still are crying.

Nothing sacred? No holds barred?
What have we gained?
What have we lost?
Do the margins hold?
Who have we pissed off?

The arts enlighten, stories brighten.
But not today.
Spirit lost.
The lab forsaken.
Lost our minds? Lost our way?
Shame! Sham? Shaman.

© 2002 by Scot Lahaie

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