the impossible poem

There’s a guy. His name is Tony. He liked to entertain anything and anyone from his bedroom wall, to a college crowd at the U of A. What he especially loved? Trolling the crowds in front of him. By trolling, I don’t mean saying things to purposely offend some- oh wait, that’s actually exactly what I mean. Except instead of online and anonymous, Tony was upfront and in your face. Trolling, in its purest form, is the art of trying to rile someone up. In the quickest, laziest, and most efficient way possible. Tony Clifton was a troll’s troll. He would walk out on stage, in front of an orchestra, in front of an unassuming crowd, and in front of people who thought they knew him. He’d enter with his back to the audience- lift his arms up as if he were Elvis- turn, and tell everyone to shut the fuck up. They never saw it coming.

There’s a guy. His name is Andy. He likes to entertain anything from his bedroom wall, to a vegas lounge. He’d relish and own the opportunity to be bemused in the midst of smoke filled laughter. What he especially loved? Trolling the crowds in front of him. Especially when he wasn’t there. Andy Kaufman developed an act that has been copied more times than the fenn chest. (Or the fake blaze, take your pick). He defined what the art of trolling was. Simply by sitting back and watching. Making sure his audience wondered what was real. They never saw it coming.

Then there’s another guy. Me. I hid something very important to Forrest Fenn and his father. And they didn’t see it coming.