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Sometimes good intentions and a reasonable degree of awareness can land you in a funny place.  A place where, for example, someone with a good heart, a little knowledge of America’s racial history, and a foreign upbringing regularly refers to a grown man with a term more often heard in toddlers’ bathrooms.

Here’s how we came to this odd place:  A good friend of mine, a Frenchman who is fluent in English and runs a paper plant here in town, rents out half the basketball court at the Mountain Brook YMCA every Saturday so the guys who work for him can play ball.  They often bring friends, and lucky for me, my friend – we’ll call him Tony Parker (that’s an alias, as my friend is white and not an NBA player) – does too.  After my first time playing with that crew, I tried to ask Tony about a player who’d impressed me with his strength and passing.  Of course, true to form, I’d forgotten his name.  The following conversation ensued:
   
“Hey – the really strong guy in the white shirt – the guy who can really pass, what’s his name?”

“Poop.”
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I’ve never really been comfortable with calling myself a poet.  A close friend once likened it to calling yourself beautiful or sexy, imagining the label to be more of a compliment -- something someone else would say about you rather than an actual profession.  Be that is it may, if by poet it is meant a lover of language, dialogue, arts and culture, then I embrace the title whole-heartedly.  Over the years, my passion for poetry has lead to an almost obsessive preoccupation with how society assigns meaning to words.  For example, popular terms like natural, organic and reality all seem to have evolved over time, becoming modifiers for a multitude of products, programs and conditions, that, in many cases, are not consistent with their intended meanings.
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Imagine you are climbing a mountain daubed with Bob Ross-y trees behind your Kincaide cottage when suddenly, giant pop-art robots appear on the scene, shooting laser beams out of their eyes, destroying your mountain cottage and all other buildings in sight.  This is what happens when John Lytle Wilson meets thrift-store kitsch painting. 

I first saw John Lytle Wilson's art at Magic City Art Connection a few years back.  His name was on the lips of many of my friends.  They were thrilled by this robot meets bad art concept.  I remember walking into his tent after seeing so many abstract, collage-y, earth toned booths and feeling shocked by the bold color and fantastical images that completely set John apart from every other booth there. Read more...

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