Stone Soup Croutons, 8-2-22: Bukowski's Gun Goes Off When It Wants To

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.

Another open mic done. I have the Boston Poetry Marathon to be part of starting later today. Carol Weston will be part of it.

This poem is one more thing to do in a full day. Glad it's done. Thanks for reading.

Bukowski's Gun Goes Off When It Wants To

Assets are merged 

with the October bulbs, 

not buried deep enough

to grow into anything. 

Bukowski only planted 

beer in his shallow fridge.

When he took it out, it was

still same beer. Magical.

Humans are their own

worst weed, self-exile

from the big garden, choke 

each other once in school. 

Meanwhile, law waits outside 

so they can label a winner, 

outrage later with every 

choice mad-libbed word.

Victims resort to last insult

to beat the bullet, or be 

own cancer, eat body out 

before the shooter enters.

Maybe freeze own body

before coordinated attack

of latest plague. Either 

their spit or another lesson.

What did fellow field mouse

do this time to get eaten 

then rejected? Failure to 

convince means you're next.

Best answer all questions

with future ghost, pre-dawn

before anyone wakes into

fireball you have to dodge. 

Keep remaining sense in 

pockets. Ignore people who

ask for it on street, want you

to pay for their straw houses.

Special thanks to Nancy Dodson, Julianne Powers, Jackie Chou, Marissa Prada, Jon Wesick, Chris Fitzgerald, C.C. Arshagra, Carol Weston and Ed Gault.