Stone Soup Croutons is a weekly poem I write using lines and impressions picked up from poems overheard from Stone Soup's open mic readers and features. I figure out a title afterwards.
Last night, Dexter Garcia brought the house down. It was another night with a strong open mic.The only thing to taint the poem was the fact that I had a rough day and though I tend to think of the "I" and "you" in these poems as a separate entity, some of the personal stuff came out.The fact that the video of last night's footage was a bust doesn't help as I transcribe this from my notebook. Sorry, guys.
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My girlfriend shows twenty-one goosebumps,
giving lamentation for our comfort zones.
Even the graveyard expels us, the grass
shouting loud enough to cut our feet.
The tempo to our forced march escape
like a turning tank tread close behind.
Brutal honesty is a roll of dimes
reinforcing a fist of lies.
There is no fort in our fortitude. Words
are shovels to our surface, blade disguised as tool.
The siren just wants us back for a second round,
Any words you have you can use to cut yourself.
It's not that words don't work, but rather they do.
The listener hears you say you're on fire, then replies, so?
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| I had Chris Fitzgerald print his name over his chicken scratch. |
Special thanks to Rachael Eisenberg, David P. Miller, Big Poppa Ben, Surat Lozowick, Martha Boss, Chris Fitzgerald, Erik Nelson, Jonathan J. Joseph, Gladys Teresa Hidalgo, Angelica Maria Aguilera, Hannah Brown and Navah The Buddaphliii.
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