Tuesday, May 09, 2017

Stone Soup Croutons, 5-8-17, Tell Yourself It's Symbolic

Stone Soup Croutons is a weekly poem I write using lines and impressions butchered 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.

Last night we continued our celebration of Stone Soup's forty-sixth year. Good open mic, weird poem. Typical Monday. I'm running a little late, so here goes.

Tell Yourself It's Symbolic

Your mother taught you all you want.
There is some reflex to apologize.
If you parents are still together,
they'll fight over who gets custody
of blame for how you turned out.

A building destroyed by fire
now has five or six people
who never call or like you online
but wait for you in the ashes
of the burnt out basement
expecting you to turn up
living there one morning.

They write your name in the dirt
hoping you'l spot it
when you lift your face in the morning.
The eggs you filled your basked with
have flown the coop.

First snow and last year's last snow
seem measured in weeks.
Your father's last words
on the joy of Spring read,
"To Be Continued."

You don't even have the benefit
of wisdom you could then ignore.

A woman stops by to say she had
a letter for you. She goes into detail
of how she lost it, then leaves
without ever listing the contents
of her poured out heart.

Somewhere in another country,
a wandering mime performs.
He will get laid by a naive American
before you.
You will e pummeled in the face
before him.

Go back to sleep on your earth-pillow.
Remember the first children's song
you ever sang in school, the last time
you believed you could sing.

Special thanks to Osker J., Nancy Messom, Gawaine Ross, Martha Boss, Lee Varon, David Agee, Jamila Ouriour, Dexter Roberts, Toni Bee and James Van Looy.

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