Stone Soup Croutons is a weekly poem I write using lines and impressions captured from poems overheard from Stone Soup's open mic readers and features. I started adding titles last week, but I can't seem to add one until the next day.
This Monday, we had K. Peddlar Bridges in the house celebrating the end of Roadpoet Fortnight, and he brought with him new biker poets who had not read at Stone Soup before. I was tired, but I got a lot out of everyone who read. Even after editing, it still feels like two or more poems meshed together, which is why my title is a little nonsensical.
Dust Sandwich
Hand to god
finger to lips
insanity is easier
observed trapped
in a glass bowl.
People come to watch,
not to visit.
Self-worship comes easy
to Narcissus.
For everyone else,
it is a Gaza strip tease
to get others to love us
for our own explosions.
We are all internally bound
in sect wars to ourselves.
It's a wonder anyone raises
a rock to any other.
I sweat tsunamis in my socks.
I am incapable of waging war or peace
or anything else that lies unmaintained
in my apartment.
I am the goose not wild enough
to chase unquestioning.
Lot's wife tells me to curse
her husband and die.
I still don't know what that means.
You know you're devoid of passion
if DiDi Delgado does not
ask you to write her a poem.
It's time for therapy.
You have a universe
with your name on it.
Population: All your fugitive verse,
a hundred highwayman haiku,
your road trip roundtable
with everyone
you want to wave to
while racing by roadside
but never do,
some place where
we do not need several seasons
of life during wartime
to write our best poems.
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| Navah The Buddaphliii didn't get to read, I'm sorry to say. |
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| Peddlar's set list for the night. Went like clockwork, if just a little out of order... |
Special thanks to Lee Varon, Alfred A. Zuñiga, Auora Levins, Rich Baydin, Martha Boss, DiDi Delgado, Jonathan J. Joseph, Sarah Vickery, Isabell VanMerlin, Priscilla Herrington, K. Peddlar Bridges and James Van Looy.
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