To a Fine Human Being

So much there is; Can't contain it all here,
but on my pen flies and it I won't veer
and stand against my calling for art
though most this age would rip their ears apart
or repeat so in Journals with a scribbling mess.
I'll affirm it, teacher, this music's timeless.
So let's travel back with an inward gaze
and extend the limits of paraphrase:

Twelve years I listened to the dronings on
about chemicals or dates without reason,
remember so many expressionless faces
at lectures too gunshy to make their cases,
ending with the animals roaring in their zoo
while the shaking teacher went 'what to do?'
From here reaching your class, you told us the sum
showing us to our seats, not like a mom
but like one vanquishing dragons within,
mastering a game that always you'd win,
all while joining students on their turbulent turff
in stunning fearlessness and equable worth,
as many that age are no less than Grendel
considered outcasts, up shit creek without paddle;
where a fire'd break out, you'd bring them around
with voice moral and gentle, their actions unwound
and if not--watch out! You'd call 'unsex me here'
sieze a cruel crown and then out they'd clear.
--What a will, but, the dumbest being sages,
you'd soon fight Grendel's mom in email exchanges.
Such shows were the day to day occurance,
and I observed all, if that's an assurance.
Anything between these lines is owed to you,
first to say questing with Rimbaud's the thing to do,
or that you hung out with Morrison, he's one man
of once I said 'I'll follow anywhere I can'
(of how many have I said that since then?)
--and it's true, bearded Jim wins in the end--
and long dicussions we had of that Holy Book
--though a bit faded, as today's freeways are stuck--
and in pinning Cassady's picture to your wall
we wrestled and you brought it down as I recall.
Just as well, though I myself forget some words
between your sparkling room and wine-flooded cupboards;
in it there was much you must of had to forgive,
with blustering teens you know how to deal and live.

All is in flux Hereclitus knows; no more
come through your course, the next pass another's door.
And when you stand before Vienna and Rome,
the Colosseum, arches, Florence's dome,
and any monuments for the existing today
among gellati shops, cycling crowds, buffets,
know in there all turns with the stretching mold
those influenced by you, now out in the world
who live and love with the passing events
and strive to shape their own true monuments.