Monday night, I hosted an open mic specifically ribbing President Trump, history's biggest sore winner. Wouldn't you know it! Not a Trump inspired line in this week's piece.
I was tired, a little in pain (long story), and I was juggling the largest open mic we've had since last year (including some people back after being away for a while). What follows is a veritable Smörgåsbord of lines that may not fully connect with each other--or connect even less than usual.
This is the most heavily edited Crouton piece since November. I couldn't get my act together Tuesday morning to type out the piece, so I sat with it for a while and tried to make it more fragmented than when I first jotted it down.
I refuse to call the poem "Smörgåsbord."
Grand plan, never fall in love,
keeps bullet from brain.
Daddy's home, no one notices.
Love contract, doesn't mean works.
Facebook routines remind,
everything dead, ignored.
Old mate's eyes ocean,
too much lost to find.
Saying It's True through platitudes
just enough, kept afloat,
Energy wasted, prior century's mistakes.
Still, convinced words convince.
Christ bearers learn to bear,
carry lie, bore pocket.
Risky as a Damocles sword
over chair, bearing lap.
Elephant in room ignored, lonely.
Circle equator twice, preserve falsehood.
Every plant, every climate passed
carries true story's breath.
Dog too old for you to walk,
knows too much, no longer accomplice.
Adam and Eve garden weeds, pulled,
tossed from bar by Mom, which is worse.
Funny new strange,
Ha ha a cough in pubic.
|Welcome back, Ben! Al, we missed you!|
Special thanks to Julia and Lee Varon, Big Poppa Ben, Michael McInnis, Erik Nelson, Kirk Etherton, Chris Fitzgerald, Carol Weston, John Galloway, Martha Boss, Nancy Messom, Al Gundy, Michael Koran, Annie Goldstien, and James Van Looy.