Stone Soup Croutons is a weekly poem I write using lines and impressions picked 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 up because it's Friday morning.
David P. Miller gave us a great reading last night. It was a night of few poets but plenty of poet aficionados, in line for his book. The best kind of night a former librarian could have, I suspect.
David read a few public transportation poems as part of his set, which is partially what fed into this week's poem. You'll have to pull me aside for the other half. But not the title. I'll just tell you now that's from an old George Carlin routine. Thanks for reading.
All Destinations Are Final
Bundles, bundles packed
with all the white matter
their brains can hold.
Shadows tucked in corners
they hope get missed
during bag check.
Self-consigned to hell,
shortest distance
between two points.
Won't take a transfer
to purgatory. That's just
as hard to get to as Heaven.
Ask they be buried
in Egyptian cotton if they
miss stop, repeat cycle.
Their funeral dirges set
to tune of warped piano,
breaking Bach on its back.
Jaded Bus driver amazed
people still don't know how
to properly plan own ruin.
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| Audience members who don't read don't get counted. Maybe they should. |
Special thanks to Lee Varon, James Van Looy and feature David Miller.
1 comment:
What? No transfers to purgatory?
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