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Stone Soup Servings Presents: Culture the MC


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 8-10 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 7:30 p.m.

Join Stone Soup this Monday at the end of the holiday weekend as we welcome Culture the MC to the mic. He has appeared in Oddball Magazine before and can be read below.



Stars in the sky stand like stationed soldiers,
paying their due to peering earthlings.
The light is borne like bullet trains, grave
and silver, intruding within the frontiers
of the crawling cover of darkness.
Then, the day washes over hills, cities,
the bricks, wood, mud of homes, and on
until it has passed into repetition
like muted rays which will always cast
scant and familiar spots and sparkles
through semi-veiled windows so nonchalant.
It paints us as it does oceans, as beasts,
as lances of trees, as anything in view.
The morning is an infinite gliding
yawn waking all slowly in its passing.
Nature is in sync, and that which lives by
its code shakes sleep from skin and stretches,
mumbling its Esperanto, rouses like
children rubbing eyes open on birthdays.
Listen to their beacon, to their speeches
of peace, to the slight intonations
and changes in meaning, everything in details,
soft signs like the Russian language,
telling stories unheard for centuries,
whose unknowing is our suffering’s cause.
We have fallen like fainting maidens, our
path begs the question: Do all things crumble?
Wiped clean on stained white napkins, on the amber
eve of Sunday, cherries burst, burrows made
deep and guarded by prejudice, ignorance,
‘til our murmur is unheard from these graves.
Listen to old imagination. Hear
the sermon early and be baptized.
On the water, we could at least float, at best
sail, like schooners, peeled and vibrated
by our survival and the ether of
our grace. Second chances are so hard to face.
The star-soldiers eye morosely, their vastness
a testament of our slightness. Lightning
claps along, the distant viewers relax.
They are not soldiers, but gardeners,
masters of letting things grow as they do,
allowing life to walk on razorblades
to Jerusalem, be it holy or not,
the destination matters little but the Hajj
is where all the meaning lies, beckoning
the obvious way to follow. All the
journey would take is a good ear and
intentions pure as a peach.


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Dedication, A Poem by Culture

I’d like to dedicate this to everyone and everything that made it possible
by being so impossible and acting like an obstacle
The fact is that i’m sponsored by the devils of my past
Caught in rapture by their words that alas would lead to aptitude
And this grasp of what be happening
Metamorphs into a passion
burning brightly through a voice, spoken madly with a raspiness

we all owe a tipped hat to that which makes us true
so without further hesitation here is the dedication that is due

i’d like to thank public education for boring me and teachers for ignoring me
i’d like to thank bloated bureaucracies
for underfunding our school system
and filling the textbooks with propaganda and half truths
so that only the fools listened

i’d like to thank them for aiming lessons at the lowest common denominator
because the boredom would drive me mad at first
but inspire me to be a comet later
and as a comet i burned my icy shell with spells of teenage angst,
i was a magician, its like hey i’m right here in front of you but i know you cant see me, thanks
i’d like to thank Denise Milhetti, with that tight tank top with straps like spaghetti
for making me right cant walk straight
with a heart that so heavy

cause my first poem was like a safety valve on a heart bout to burst
i discovered the gift and i discovered the curse

i’d like to thank that 3 subject notebook and that Bic pen
the lines were so tall, the ink was so thick then
i spilled pen like new blood on white tile
and bled truth, and began to be more than just another slight child, i let loose

i’d like to thank mob mentality and fear of intelligence
for making me an outcast, and socially hesitant
i’d like to thank both my bullies and victims
what goes around comes around. as children were so vicious

at this point, i’d like to thank two two of my oldest friends since age 12
The weed and the bottle
Sometimes i like to pretend like they helped
And didn’t deepen my problems

I’d like to thank books like a drowning man would thank air
See the well-spring of knowledge will level the field for those playing a game that ain’t fair
I’d like to thank every word, written line, punctuation, and factual mention

These were my saviors while i was doing my time, i mean serving my sentence

I’d like to thank drug addiction
And criminal ways
For giving me enough non fiction to fill up each page
And giving the pain that helped fill up each day
Until the villain i was, changed his villainous ways

I’d like to thank mom and dad for the difference they made
They let the child roam free, from a home that never felt either exactly lonely or cozy
Felt like the glance but they dont see
Like Taoist believers
That said just go Be
And so I cast myself into a flaming world and felt the cold heat
And when I rose up out the ashes
I was finally so me

I’d like to thank the literary illegality of poets who broke molds and created new ways to write
By reaching for the pens of the future as if their souls could time travel
And if they did not do these things
I know
My own story would never unravel

The Kerouacs, Bukowskis and Carrolls
And the unheard throngs of their disciples
The yesterdays that spawned today’s
Poems wielded like swords by members of some kind of beautiful knighthood

cause life could have meaning without all of this art but how could we express it where would we start
I’d like thank every listener for having played their part
Without you the words have no destination after leaving my heart

Without your ears and your eyes, that are so glad and so kind
That would imbibe this viscous and improbable wine
Made out of soul, the fruit
pressed in between pages
Bleeding out of notebooks so old
Know that you make this a reality because you experience
And save from a fatality
Bejeweled embers
That float from the readers lips

Lets leave it at this
the pain and the joy are my ink
without my pen and my page, i cant breathe i cant think

This is for everyone and everything that made it possible
by being so impossible and acting like an obstacle

"Divertissment" © Dr. Regina Valluzzi
“Divertissment” © Dr. Regina Valluzzi

is a Boston-based poet, MC, and author. His influences include Nas, Jim Morrison, Jack Kerouac, and Jim Carroll. He has been writing since age 12 and has utilized the written word as a way to find solace, a method to codify dreams and intentions, and a medium to deliver meaning and wisdom through lyricism and rhythm. His work deals with universal ideas rather than personal anecdotes – his aim is to connect all people through the recurring themes of the human condition that all experience. He is currently working on a book of poetry and an EP slated to drop in 2014. He is desperately searching for every free moment and minute to make those works a reality very very soon.

Dr. Regina Valluzzi explores abstract scientific concepts through complex geometric paintings. Many of the subjects of her abstract drawings and paintings are taken from topics in Physics research. Soft Matter Physics and Biological Physics ideas are often seen, arising from her main area of research for many years.