Tuesday, January 31, 2017

Stone Soup Croutons, 1-30-17, Alternating

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. You can read the other ones I've done since 2015 here.

Tonight was Martha Boss, Stone Soup's first feature of 2017. I've had a busy week, so it was hard to focus, and I have a lot on my mind (like most Americans, and most of the people on the open mic). I'd like to say next week's poem won't have anything Trump related, but if the last couple of hours are any indication, I doubt that will be the case.


Our American Ideal is in flux.
The White House website says it's still loading judicial.

It tells you to wait at your screen
so it can plop something in your hand,

and not the good kind of plop
like a stone skipping into a pond.

And it runs in your hand like an tattoo
expired, not even a stencil left to your skin.

The White House offers you a poll, one question
"You'll be sad when I'm gone, right?"

It's not even day ten. The human race
has no place in our electoral college.

We vote to hurt ourselves, slit our own throats
before we let a Syrian take even this job.

Our leader promises an all-volunteer suicide squad.
It's the only way we open our hearts anymore.

To not kill ourselves is the ultimate insurrection.
Your non-actions will be blacked out form the permanent record,

our contributions a drop in a poisoned well, a step
in a maze they will fly over to record your numbers.

Hard to decipher handwriting from someone who left before the open mic started

Special thanks to Greg Murane, Chris Fitzgerald, Nancy Messom, Dexter Roberts, Skooot, Jason Wright, Martha Boss, Mike Koran, Toni Bee, Lo Galluccio, Lee Varon and James Van Looy.  

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