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 collecting the best of my first year of poems. Click here to purchase it.
It's 2022, and Stone Soup is going strong, as seen this past Wednesday. This Wednesday's poem was fun to write if only for title.
Like most nights, I was late and had to have bites of my dinner between open mic spots. Lately, my dinner of choice on Wednesdays has been Velveeta Mac and Cheese, the kind with the golden goop in a bag. It's my last guilty pleasure from the days when too many of my dinners consisted of Ellio's Pizza and Dinty Moore Beef Stew. This past Wednesday, I was particularly hungry. I knew I would not be successful in hiding my eating. If you see the video of the night, you'll wonder if I was even trying.
The open mic seemed to go back once or twice to Velveeta (along with turds left in the road and elsewhere, go figure). I didn't put Velveeta in the poem itself but decided it was better as part of the title. At least the poem feels more fun because of it.
I finished this on Thursday night for a change. I have a lot more things to write and want to keep the fun going. The first Crouton poem of the year is as pessimistic as the last one in 2021. Still, I have big goals for 2022, the way I do every year. Thanks for reading, and double thanks for sticking around.
Velveeta Awakenings
What the f---, only a buck
is the street's new sales pitch
to people with no coin
in empty pockets.
All the world's a stage,
and everyone wants you
Refusal leads you to
your death by self defense.
Acquiescence saves energy.
To create content, you need
to be as hard boiled as diamond.
Passive aggressiveness belongs
to the dead and unshared.
We're allowed to pick
our sides, so long as we know
it's a side that will lose.
No more hope in mythology.
Last symbol of peace
a feather in a tiger's mouth,
nearby nest toppled, embryos
fail to take flight.
The world hasn't changed its
storefront window in decades
and wonders why no one
wants to enter.
Everyone unable to rise
above our turds in the road.
Those left are rows of ducks
in line for the chopping block
to get out of the cold.
All we can hope for
is our own pieta,
a surrogate mother's lap.
The school of hard knocks
reduced to a fist on your desk
in cubicle non-privacy,
We wait for death in HR
to stop by with our promotion
a revelation before becoming
the one percent's food.
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| Thanks for coming, people. |
Special thanks to Bil Lewis, Ari Whipple, Ed Gault, Chris Fitzgerald, Jan Rowe, Nancy Dodson, Jon Wesick, Patricia Carragon, Carol Weston, Ethan Mackler and James Van Looy.
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