Tuesday, October 18, 2016

Stone Soup Croutons, 10-17-16, Pity

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 access them all here.

Many thanks to M'shairi for a fine feature. We had a open mic filled with fans of her work and members of Gloria Monaghan's writing class. I grabbed everyone's words as best as I could and ended with a misheard lyric from James Van Looy. I used the misheard version even after I got clarification from James because it sounded funnier and I wanted to include him. He read his poem from last week again, and as great as it was I didn't want to make this a Trump poem again (though I guess it might have seeped in a little towards the end). There was a lot of sex in last night's poetry, from M'shairi and others ("hoetry" is what she called it at one point). It was great, and my one lingering regret is not having captured more of that. So you'll all just have to come back next week and read more of those poems, eh? Thanks for reading and enjoy this week's mash-up.


Always start with a sudden
squeal or squawk.
It helps when you try
asking God for a solid.

This time, God tells you
to get back to him
when you know what you want
besides one more angel in hell

that's grown nostalgic
for the lack of good girls
and is not into you penchant
for Karma Sutra by full moon.

It doesn't work. It's like
speaking cunnilingus to
common folk in the morning cafe,
cutting breakfast toast with a Bowie,

separating mussels from
their shells with a broadsword
gathering otherworldly autumn leaves
with harsher immigration laws,

chopping down the trees
to separate them from the fleas
repeal hope from the homeless,
benches from the parks.

Pride stays before the overkill.
There are runaway ghost
from shootings that drive
to you rather than by.

All they want is to submit
Mother Earth is no different.
Everyone taking from her,
she would feel much better

if  you just laid with her more,
entwined with her licorice roots,
let the rain wash over till you wake
sop-happy in the mud,

ready for another round
another hungry hound
pocketing poesies
she allows you to take.

Awesome. Someone took the number one spot.
Special thanks to Justin, Gawaine Ross, Rich Baydin, Navah The Buddaphliii, Antonia Iaquinta, Nancy Messom, Martha Boss, Gloria Monaghan, Connor Boris, Eric Mirante, Timmy Conklin, Chris Dysart, James Petrillo, Shaquan Laray, and James Van Looy. 

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