I double checked the numbers, and setting aside from the guest poem from DiDi Delgado, the bonus poem I did one week at the SOUPED Up Poetry Slam, and one or two other poems I did in this vein outside of Stone Soup, this is the fiftieth Stone Soup Crouton poem I've done.
Looking back, it's amazing how many times I skipped my weekly poem in the beginning. Somehow in the new year, I was able to rally and find a weekly rhythm in spike of my early start time at work. Seriously, I've been getting up at four or five in the morning to do some of these. It's a miracle there weren't more errors in these posts than I found when I reviewed them recently. I appreciate all the feedback I've gotten with these poems and hope to keep going in spite of recent setbacks in my schedule.
Last night was a diverse and fun open mic thanks to featured reader (and soon-to-be ex Bostonian) Gemma Cooper Novack. It was a diverse mix of regulars and poets returning to the open mic. This was a fun one to compile and write. I appreciate the rich material.
The Last Country Act
They Ever Booked
Even on a mere pony
speed of horse feels as fast
as calculus by calculator,
impossible as teaching
a tin-eared goat to tap dance
using uningested can lids,
stealing the show on garbage day,
a parade for your neighbor's
morning cup of cannabis,
going from jovial to
lowly blues by the end
of their morning route.
The mood goes to country
like when we lunch at work
on cafeteria food we don't want.
On stage, a crooner drawls
so much, it's as if he can't read
his own lyric sheet.
He crows like a cow
about his ex-other half,
his latest greatest failed merge.
He calls her tarantula,
ready to devour him with
no goodbye note before he ran.
She was Medusa, bearer
of a thousand horrific origins,
all created by her.
Her unborn child
he did not help conceive
will be taught to laugh at him
and regard him with
not even the politeness
of a Walmart greeter.
His message to them
goes in a bottle still half-filled,
unable to be dislodged from his hand.
He's certain she's still
talking about him
though she's long gone home.
Her zephyr ride home
will be long enough, she's bound
to think of someone else.
He'll feign perfect calm,
taking a ghost shit on a ghost ship
he built and emptied himself
till he hangs himself
by way of trying on old clothing
strangled by his younger, slenderer man.
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| This week's open mic sheet courtesy of David Miller. |
Special thanks to Valerie Loveland, April Penn, Suzanne O'Toole, Nancy Messom, Janet Cormier, David Agee, David Miller, Erik Nelson, Martha Boss, Austin Hendricks, Susanna K, DiDi Delgado, Annie, Michael F. Gill, and Gemma Cooper-Novack.
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