Tuesday, August 30, 2016

Stone Soup Croutons, 8-29-16, Rusted


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 (and sometimes the rest of the poem) later. To paraphrase Lorne Michaels, the poem doesn't go up because it's good; it goes up because it's Tuesday morning. I've done fifty of them now, and you can read them here.

Jla was our last feature before Labor Day. This collage poet (my term) had some amazing finishers to her set, doing her trick of taking three words called out from the audience and forging a spoken word piece from them. The last one she did went on for several minutes of riffs. I hope she shares it with the rest of the world in the recording she made. She left me with a lot to live up to with this week's piece. Thanks for the challenge, Jla.


Rusted

Sorry, man. We're only allowed
to play the fool tonight.
It's part of the Groupon.

Let's go to the bar
where The Doors and Twisted Sister
play back to back,

where W.H. Auden and Louis C.K.
are quoted in the same paper,
the student scrambling to finish.

Cornered-table, we poets
write in a round robin.
Nothing is brought forward.

No one goes anywhere,
Newton's law never
got around to writing down.

Three sisters raised in the sand traps
finalize their marriages.
Each gets a cave in their dowry.

They will eat the rest of their meals
in their non-airy hovels. They don't mind.
The gas station truck stop diner is worse.

We are at least lucky
to not have a need of fuel.
We are not interested in progress.

Our mossy tomato heads
are not built for the beaches.
The ceiling alone never judges

as scribes go from thesis
to pay-per-minute web cameras
to pictures of Trumps wife

to cheating websites
without even having anyone
that would require stealth,

finding loopholes through
both the Ten Commandments
and Bill of Rights, imposed impunity.

We've been putting quarters
in the jukebox, hoping to
score an unheard siren

who can help crack up
a new mirror that tells us what else
our rusted ruddy faces resemble. 






Special Thanks to Dave Somerset, Chris Fitzgerald, Dennis Daly, David Miller, Nancy Messom, Martha Boss, Janet Cormier, James Van Looy and Jla.


1 comment:

David Somerset said...

I really liked it.

If a translation of a poem is a poem about a poem,

this was a dream about a night of poems.

thanks,
Chad