I am a journalist.
Do you know what that means?
It means you can trust me.
It means you can trust my opinion to be my opinion.
Just the facts, man?
Just the facts, as seen through one man’s eyes…
through his pen and onto paper.
You don’t like my asking questions?
I don’t like your evasive maneuvering.
But hey, man, we all do it.
You forgive me and maybe, just maybe, I’ll forgive you.
Let’s talk, man.
That’s all I want to do.
What did you eat for breakfast this morning?
Do you know what a scrum is?
Have you worked in a garden?
Have you read any Tolstoy?
I know what those things are, but barely.
Tell me what you know,
Tell me what you can.
I understand the underside of your subconscious.
Things are at work and at play that we can’t even begin to comprehend.
That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.
As I see it:
Every person is different.
Everybody has their own perspective.
I see taupe, maybe you see pink.
Where I see style, you see simple cloth and jean.
A man is made by his smile,
by his hand shake.
There is no nut graph for human interaction.
No fair and balanced way to size someone up based on one meeting.
Sherlock Holmes taught me that Sherlock Holmes doesn’t exist.
That a first impression can be made onto silly putty,
Hold off on the permanent cement until…when?
Until never, I think.
Who I am today,
What I ask of you today,
Is not the same as what I will say tomorrow.
I follow the breakfast-style school of thought.
That the events of a single day can be traced back…to this morning burnt toast.
To that late alarm.
To a child’s 4AM scream.
To a river of dog piss outside your bedroom door.
To no underwear.
Where’s my argyle socks?
Where’s my camera?
Did I leave my keys in my vest, basket, table, hat, closet, coat, work, car, bag?
As I understand it, nothing happens for a reason.
We tack the reasons on after we reason ourselves out of our beds.
But, I digress…we were talking about you.
I am asking you questions about who you are, what you do.
Who do you love? What’s on your list today?
I’m just asking questions
Just prodding at your ribs for the marrow of truth.
The truth as you see it.
And hey, that’s okay.
We are all spectators watching players watching spectators.
What I write down now may never matter to you again,
But it may matter to me.
Or vice versa. Who knows? I certainly don’t.
I don’t want to know.
I just want to know what you know.
Don’t ham it up.
Don’t grin into the camera.
Show me you.
Let me take off my masque so I can see your masque all the better.
Maybe your masque is a lack of one.
Maybe mine is, too.
Trust me, I’m a reporter.
-A Beat poem by: Jeremia Schrock