Friday, November 20, 2020

SAFE DISTANCE EDITION - Stone Soup Croutons, 11-18-20: A Full Account


Stone Soup Croutons is a weekly poem I write using lines and impressions picked from Stone Soup Poetry'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.

I also have a book out now collecting the best of my first year of poems. Click here to purchase it.

It was a good Stone Soup open mic this past Wednesday. And we were back in our scheduled time slot! I almost feel like a real organizer again. 
 
It feels good having a full rough draft ready for Friday morning. I was able to take notes throughout the open mic. So much better than cramming it all again via my YouTube video for everything I forgot hearing between Wednesday night and Thursday morning. 
 
Of course, just going by my quick live notes makes the poem feel random and incoherent, but that's the fun a lot of the times. 
 
I did do more repetition than I anticipated. I try not to use words like "you" and "your" no more than once in a poem. This time, I couldn't see a way out. I hope it doesn't ruin anything.
 
The election has lifted one (of just many) loads off my back, I feel a bit re-energized and ready to do more work. In a way, I'm more excited for whatever comes later today than I am about this morning's poem (though it is cool to get this up so early). Thanks for reading.


A Full Account

Your mom never auditioned
for her part. You'll never know
what parts she sighed over
while reciting. 

How is 2020 turning out
so far? Are you pulling
for the moon as planned
or sliding further down?
 
Who remembers snares
and cymbals sounding off
after every resolution 
made in January?
 
Was broken zipper
celibacy preserved,
dead leaf libido spared 
further embarrassment?

What have you let die, 
or stubbornly kept on ice? 
Anything frozen you finally
took a hammer to?

Walls build up after every 
step. Smile! The arguing 
voices have moved 
from the TV to the phone. 

The wild cat that fakes
domesticity no longer
seduces you into letting
your face get scratched. 
 
Old fruit grows bitter 
by burning water, the
only lake aisle a favorite
corner package store.
 
Split atoms in pennies
to get by, stock up on
all the no-name booze
you haven't had to boycott.
 
Countdown till corporate 
caesars cannibalize each other,
their most choice meats
long taken from the masses
 

James always finishes. I just forget to put him at the end sometimes.

Special thanks to Patricia Carragon, John Stickney, Carol Weston, Jon Wesick, Nancy Dodson, Ethan Mackler, C.C. Arshagra, Erik Tate and James Van Looy.

1 comment:

JJ Stickney said...

You are so hard working on our behalf, terrific poem