Stone Soup Croutons was a weekly poem I wrote 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. You can see the other ones I wrote by clicking here.
I went on hiatus a while back, but I'm coming back for a not to the slam that took place last Tuesday at The Dudley Cafe, where kept time and score.
Last Tuesday was an exciting night. It was only my crazy schedule (and cold feet from being out of the habit for over a month) that I post the resulting poem below. Of course it's inspired by recent events, just as much as many of the slam poems were that night. Props to the Society of Urban Poetry for putting this together and hosting it.
Countdown
Everyone has to hustle more than ever
just to get their own punch in the face.
The winos get their pick of rusted cars
because they slept in line all night.
the alt right are waiting for their pussy-stringed harp
before they enter their entitled rapture.
They rise out of their graveyard hearts
daisies marking where and when they died.
The poorest of retro prophets lament dead possums
by the road, as if that's their only sin.
Uneasy housewives pray with kissed fists.
Professional development is sitting across the table
under the thumb of your angry white male
before he leaves the room, after which you write,
Who am I without you in the fluorescent air
until we're the last ones to leave the office.
Meanwhile our children suffer permanent trauma
on the bathroom, To protect them, we give them
names that are funny to the older generation,
names like Stay Away and Stop Killing Us.
Old figures and words turn inot icons of smoke,
castles of sand floating in a storm cloud.
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| The competitors. |
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