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 an award nominated book out now collecting the best of my first year of poems. Click here to purchase it.
Jon Wesick featured on Inauguration Groundhog Day! a perfect storm of words from the open mic and the star performer. Are we seeing the end of the edgelord (among other people) after all these long years? My mind seemed to think so when I wrote the poem below. I regret not attempting to put more physics in this week's work.
The poem is a mess. I make no excuses.
The poem is as crazy as my earliest crouton poems in 2015, when I'd be racing every morning to finish them less than twelve hours after a Stone Soup night.
It's all over the place, no set rhythm or pace throughout.
2015 was also the same time the edgelords were coming into power. A more chaotic time than others might remember.
I could say this poem is chaotic because it's a call back to that time when the edgelords are starting to lose power. Sunrise meets sunset.
But that would be just an excuse. and we're not really out of the edgelord woods yet.
Thanks for reading.
An Edgelord's Last Day
Be a pirate and board your own home.
Dwight of the bumblebees,
you sole roommate,
protests sloppiness in your ear,
You feel safe even with
the door's banging. Even the wind
cries out to be let in, bring some air
to the living room, where even
your namedroppings are left
to fester on the floor.
No inherited slave is willing
to save your growing clutter
from outside's Aryan fire.
The underground railroad is not
a river, will take miles to reach
and is not meant for you.
Sit and contemplate self-combustion.
Fire is coming anyway. Blocks away,
a church bell rings as if it's punching
it's own bell to be put out. A tide rises
not to put out flames outside home
but to smother your cancelled family.
Your personal truth doesn't have
the chance of a Republican's
conscience in congress. The Vikings
turn tail, horns tucked who-knows-where.
Even fire escapes seem like misnomers.
The White House afternoon dies down.
Lurking cannibals may save you for last,
your stale marrow dried as sawed wood.
No one else knows you Your head in
the sand grants you the celebrity status
of a wombat, your table never saved
no matter how much is left in your glass.
Relatives try to storm the twenty-first
century, but they are too self-medicated
to see it in front of them. They text
and ask if you can be their general.
Rage without easy target, you deem
pizza slices you can't afford as sluts.
the human wave is more than metaphorical.
With change comes impact inseparable
as water from wet. But the fires might stop.
At long last the fires might stop.
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| Let's keep the list of participants growing in 2021. |
Bil Lewis, Dee Allen, David Miller, Christopher R., Jan Rowe, John Stickney, Carol Weston, Patricia Carragon, Nancy Dodson, Ethan Mackler, Linda Vlodyka, Ed Gault, Rusty Rose, Erik Tate, James Van Looy and Jon Wesick.
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