Yesterday we had the last full-length open mic in the Out of The Blue's current location.
The unexpected common theme of the night was family, seemingly omthers in particular. Maybe not so surprising after all, given that Thanksgiving is just around the corner. It no doubt helped me that I actually spent time with my Mom over the long weekend.
Props to David Agee, who introduced me to the Poetry of Sally Crabill. Yes, the title is taken from a Paul Simon song. I make it slightly less sad here.
Your mother will tell you
there will be time to self reflect
when you are older and sleep longer.
Revelations are like erotic dreams.
Keep them to yourself
that you may truly find peace.
Remember: You're a survivor
if you make it through the night
in your sleep.
Even Buddha tires
of roadside assassins,
knows better not to cal Mom.
In birthday cards his pen bleeds
Hallmark blasphemy, no whiffs of smoke
from the fires that burn him.
Even elderly mothers are giddy
and cook for all five thousand of you
in a single weekend.
The only kind of math you care about,
like how you and your first teen lover
lived centuries in a single summer.
The way your mother measures
everything striking her door
on a windy day, gets up when you knock.
Mom knows the decimal difference
between the blow from a gale
And your heavy heart.
Crocodile's bottled sympathies
Go unsold, unable to understand
Smileless rapture, parent-child reunion.
|Me: "Oh, Martha, I'm sorry I didn't call you. You didn't put your name on the open sheet.|
Martha: You're right, I didn't.
Special Thanks to Bil Lewis, Tanya, Krystal, Julia Carlson, Erik Nelson, David Agee, Curtis, Chris Fitzgerald, Sian Masashi, Deb Pirestly, Martha Boss and James Van Looy.