If you listened to the poem read at the inauguration and are finished cleaning the blood out of your ears . . . well, here is my version of it (but keep tissues nearby to clean the blood out of your eyes).
If you didn’t hear the original poem you really probably should read it before you continue with this post.
Lame song for the day.
Each day we go about our business, ducking each others’ bad poetry or not, about to belch or belching. All about us is food. All about us are Oreos and Twinkies, pears and apples, each one getting stuck on our pierced tongues. Someone is frying up some chicken, putting frosting on a cupcake, buying a Big Mac, eating food that does not need eaten.
Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a great big hat sporting a great big bow and an extreme lack of current talent, spoons, drum, cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
A woman and her son wait for their food stamps.
A farmer considers his government subsidies; A teacher says, “You pretended to do your best so you get an A. Go to lunch.”
We encounter each other in supermarkets, supermarkets clean or dirty, big or small; supermarkets to visit, revisit.
We cross wide aisles and parking lots that mark the will of someone and then others who said, “I need to see what’s in there to eat; I know there is something better than McDonalds down the road.”
We need to find a place where we are full; We walk into that which will feed us, because we are smart enough to not walk blindly into some place we cannot see, may not have food.
Say it plain, that many cows have died for this day. Chickens, too. Sing the names of the dead, “eee-i-eee-i-oh!” who brought us here, who laid the eggs, chewed the grasses, pollinated the flowers, the fruit trees, built patty by patty the greasy edibles they would give their lives for, work your insides with.
Praise song for handouts; praise song for food. Praise song for every hand-plucked turkey; The handing it out at government offices.
Some live by “Where’s the beef?”
Others by you deserve a break today, have it your way.
What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond nuggets and french fries and stroganoff. Love that casts a widening pool of handouts. Love based on entitlement.
In today’s false sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, even barbeque.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp – lame song for eating free food in the darkness.