Stone Soup Servings is a regular series for Oddball Magazine that features upcoming performers at Stone Soup Poetry, the long-running spoken word venue in the Boston area that has partnered with Oddball Magazine. Stone Soup Poetry now meets from 7-9 p.m. every Monday at the Out of The Blue Art Gallery’s new location at 541 Massachusetts Avenue in Central Square Cambridge, Massachusetts. The open mike sign-up at 6:30 p.m.

On October 26, we welcome the return of Society of Urban Poetry stalwart Crystal Beck, better known as Navah the Buddaphliii. She has been a mainstay both at Stone Soup and at Oddball. The poem below will remind you why. Read it and be in the audience on Monday.


Crack cocaine

I parked my car perfectly
In an available space
across The street
from the oldest church
In south end of Boston
To the left of me
walks a very attractive male
in his Late 20’s
That resemble
a century turning Over in its grave,
look like
he’s been beaten up By life
And His face told the story of his war
And that he was high
On drugs
Drugs that had psychological credibility
Which lured him into
the purple state of his mind
The place were we learn our fears
A prison for users
Trust me I know what an addict looks like I remember my mom before she died
But for the life of me, I can’t remember
the last time she hugged me
So I wondered what he was on
And if he had sniffed coke,
white girl, snowy Caucasus
and all the
whistle and bells of
Being high
All the feelings of feeling loopy lop
Then I got out my car
and walked towards
him and the way I needed to go
As I passed he looked at me
Like I was Beautiful and he was mystified
He said in a voice
made for high definition
” well “Hey hey”and I said high
and from what I can see he’s no different from me we both reside in the dusk of our minds, a
Judeas wilderness a place where I fondle words
And I find myself
For him it’s a place between the pipe
And his lips this is where
He looses himself and discover
The science of angels in
The presence of God
A man made high
So I continue to walk down
the street like I normally do
reciting poetry outloud
for about 10 minutes
give or take until
I reach the corner of the street
where I worked
I looked down and on the ground
I saw the coolest shadow it was him
I looked up and to my surprise
All I saw was his lackadaisical smile,
and eyes that change like mood rings
Staring directly in my face and
I can’t help but think could he love
The 911 eyes staring back at him and
My left handed personality
And was he high enough to just
Notice the cover
And not care about what it said
Inside the book
Or maybe he already read me
I asked him
Are you following
Me, and without a moment to
Stall he replied
yes and asked if I was crazy
His voice sound like wildly
Sung lyrics
Taken aback I answered to
Some maybe and to others
A spoken word artist
and then he asked
me if I wanted to go have breakfast
Puzzled, judgmental and full off of
Poetry food
I laugh to myself
And wondered who’s paying
See I grew from a
Ghetto garden I was raised by poverty,
Prostitutions and pimps
And Money was never the root
To all evil but it was an issue
an ongoing problem
And problems make the
Worst companions
So after the morning
Laughter and thank God
Not the pill this time
I snuck in a question
And asked him was he high
And what was he on
acid, ecstasy, I know it
Wasn’t weed, because I did that
he said it was hard
I said what is hard
He said cocaine , I said crack
Yeah crack a stone fragment
Those in the trap call crack
rocks and away out
I pause then he says
Come on let’s go get breakfast
I explained to him
How life isn’t a race
Its a chase and we all
Got dreams to catch
And how I would love to

But I’ve got this thing I can’t
Shake and
sometimes it gets in the way,
Its called a job
Now between him being high
and me being insane
I mean
A poet
I thought
him and I would
Make either
make the perfect match
or a recipe for disaster…
So here is where
Jesus finally took the wheel
And our conversation
ended in a bread basket