Stone Soup Croutons, 9-25-17, Poets as Saboteurs

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. To paraphrase Lorne Michaels, this poem doesn't go up because it's ready, it goes on because it's Tuesday morning.

The open mice was nice last night. That's all I have to say as I near work time and I type up what I wrote. I didn't intend this to be a sort-of sequel to last week's piece, but there you go.


Poets as Saboteurs 

Dirty underwear on a clipboard
in place of a thesis for our pulpit.
It lacks some items
to officially make it laundry.

We'd rather loot the bodies
while they live, peep-tom windows
painted back, always suspect
a bigger prize behind the impossible,
imagination of greater reward
unleashed by the likelihood of nothing.

The long shot winning number
written in crayon
is the only ticket we'll buy.

Our own biggest object
of resistance, we run towards ourselves
to crash in self-love,
scuff our shoes on waxed floors
in hopes to make a mark,

a trail of sole stains
enough to map out
the Tennessee Waltz
left-right, left-right
two lefts fall,
hope to land on
our other half.

Half the numbers, and STILL nobody takes the number one spot.

Special thanks to Toni Bee, Julia Carlson, Deb Pirestly, Lee Varon, Blaine Hebbel, Erik Nelson, Bil Lewis and James Van Looy.