Friday, August 05, 2022

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.

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