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#poetry #poems #ranting #lunatic

© Chuck Scott 2013

Share this blog....

#poetry #poems #ranting #lunatic

© Chuck Scott 2013

2 Poems

Visions of the Internet Anarchist

Revolution is a series
of keystrokes, in a 
dark room with the glow
of a laptop.
Triple espresso mocha latte
to the right,
all natural cigarettes
on the table, and many more
snuffed out in the ashtray
to the left.

And Julian Assange is
aroused.....

Same Shit, Different Day

Time fades from the past
bright in the present,
slowly lighting the future.

Hazy memories
hide present mistakes
destined to repeat,
as the future grows brighter.

Never learning,
stagnant, always moving
forward.

© Chuck Scott 2013

2 Poems

Visions of the Internet Anarchist

Revolution is a series
of keystrokes, in a 
dark room with the glow
of a laptop.
Triple espresso mocha latte
to the right,
all natural cigarettes
on the table, and many more
snuffed out in the ashtray
to the left.

And Julian Assange is
aroused.....

Same Shit, Different Day

Time fades from the past
bright in the present,
slowly lighting the future.

Hazy memories
hide present mistakes
destined to repeat,
as the future grows brighter.

Never learning,
stagnant, always moving
forward.

© Chuck Scott 2013

Something to read while I take a break from writing......

http://www.crackthespine.com/p/current-issue.html

Something to read while I take a break from writing......

http://www.crackthespine.com/p/current-issue.html

chuck scott: Five Questions with Chuck Scott

chuck scott: Five Questions with Chuck Scott: *Some days I have lots of time to daydream. This is a result of my daydreaming of being a published novelist/essayist/blogger of great renow...

chuck scott: Five Questions with Chuck Scott

chuck scott: Five Questions with Chuck Scott: *Some days I have lots of time to daydream. This is a result of my daydreaming of being a published novelist/essayist/blogger of great renow...

Because I feel an obligation to post something, no matter how inane.....

I have been busy as of late. I have been writing short stories and some other stuff that seems to stay in a form of incompleteness. 

Sending out poems and such has a way of taxing my soul.--I am an impatient man..

I have a couple of rewrites to do, and that in itself makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a broken screwdriver. 

Until I finish, I leave you with this, written by someone else who is long dead....

Men Say They Know Many Things

Men say they know many things;
But lo! they have taken wings, —
The arts and sciences,
And a thousand appliances;
The wind that blows
Is all that any body knows.

Henry David Thoreau

Because I feel an obligation to post something, no matter how inane.....

I have been busy as of late. I have been writing short stories and some other stuff that seems to stay in a form of incompleteness. 

Sending out poems and such has a way of taxing my soul.--I am an impatient man..

I have a couple of rewrites to do, and that in itself makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a broken screwdriver. 

Until I finish, I leave you with this, written by someone else who is long dead....

Men Say They Know Many Things

Men say they know many things;
But lo! they have taken wings, —
The arts and sciences,
And a thousand appliances;
The wind that blows
Is all that any body knows.

Henry David Thoreau

Poetry Reading

First poetry reading

in a couple of decades.

I laughed.

I cried.

I sat in awe.

That night I learned:

Georgia Peaches

are FREAKY!

Kansans punch

two year olds,

in the face,

for crying.

During intermission

while smoking a cigar,

playing cool and aloof (who am I kidding?)

I listened to conversations.

One common thread,

among poets who

stay in the game is:

poetry kills the poet-

but what a way to go.

While waiting for the crapper

I was let in on a little known

secret,

(to men)

about women’s public restroom

etiquette.

Women,

whatever you do,

never,

I mean never,

talk on your cell phone

while on the can.

--You will be busted out

by one of your sisters

with explosive bowl syndrome—

I learned the significance

of PBR in a can, also

that same PBR

on an empty stomach

is money well spent.

Most importantly,

I remembered that words are best shared

with other people. 

Poetry Reading

First poetry reading

in a couple of decades.

I laughed.

I cried.

I sat in awe.

That night I learned:

Georgia Peaches

are FREAKY!

Kansans punch

two year olds,

in the face,

for crying.

During intermission

while smoking a cigar,

playing cool and aloof (who am I kidding?)

I listened to conversations.

One common thread,

among poets who

stay in the game is:

poetry kills the poet-

but what a way to go.

While waiting for the crapper

I was let in on a little known

secret,

(to men)

about women’s public restroom

etiquette.

Women,

whatever you do,

never,

I mean never,

talk on your cell phone

while on the can.

--You will be busted out

by one of your sisters

with explosive bowl syndrome—

I learned the significance

of PBR in a can, also

that same PBR

on an empty stomach

is money well spent.

Most importantly,

I remembered that words are best shared

with other people. 

Sorry Kids

Slicing through

the dung of it all, 

the sick of it all, 

the sum of it all.

Blunderbuss to the head,

an epiphany,

sudden realization,

clarified awareness

that we know nothing more

than the day before

or through all of history

other than, 

wars remain,

people kill,

poverty remains, 

people starve,

and children suffer

from our muddled traipsing 

through the 

bogs of life....

Sorry Kids

Slicing through

the dung of it all, 

the sick of it all, 

the sum of it all.

Blunderbuss to the head,

an epiphany,

sudden realization,

clarified awareness

that we know nothing more

than the day before

or through all of history

other than, 

wars remain,

people kill,

poverty remains, 

people starve,

and children suffer

from our muddled traipsing 

through the 

bogs of life....

Be Strong Boston!

As some of you know I spent a good part of my life outside Boston, in fact most all of the 80's and the first couple of years of the 90's. I am not a native to New England, but from the time I was born until my early 20's Massachusetts was the longest I had lived anywhere. I am a transient who has longed for a hometown and consider Billerica, Massachusetts mine. I miss it tremendously and if I ever get to retire Chastity and I are moving there to spend our waning winters ass deep in snow and summers in the White Mountains (still New England). Don't get me wrong, We love Kansas City but c'mon, it's not friggin New England!

All that to say, in light of the attack on Boston, I have had time to reflect. I, like many, have a hard time trying to sort out what kind of person thinks that killing and maiming people is a good thing. What is more distressing to me is all of the assumptions being made as to who did this. It seems the go to enemy is Muslim. Without any proof the media put it out there that it could possibly be a Muslim attack, because as we all know, normal white bread Americans aren't known to blow things up.

Journalism used to be a noble profession, now it's just words with no facts, a propaganda tool creating fear.

I am thinking it was some disgruntled dude from Greenland. Hell, they've been mad at us forever. Just ask any native of Greenland, they hate us for the clubbing of baby seals and global warming. Homeland Security missed that one.

All kidding aside. The type of person who did this was only one type, IDIOT. Idiots have been ruining it for everybody since forever. We need to police the idiots.

If there is anything good that came out of this it would be the common people looking after and caring for each other. It gives me hope for humanity.

Boston, I love you. You are all in my thoughts and prayers... B strong!

Chuck

Be Strong Boston!

As some of you know I spent a good part of my life outside Boston, in fact most all of the 80's and the first couple of years of the 90's. I am not a native to New England, but from the time I was born until my early 20's Massachusetts was the longest I had lived anywhere. I am a transient who has longed for a hometown and consider Billerica, Massachusetts mine. I miss it tremendously and if I ever get to retire Chastity and I are moving there to spend our waning winters ass deep in snow and summers in the White Mountains (still New England). Don't get me wrong, We love Kansas City but c'mon, it's not friggin New England!

All that to say, in light of the attack on Boston, I have had time to reflect. I, like many, have a hard time trying to sort out what kind of person thinks that killing and maiming people is a good thing. What is more distressing to me is all of the assumptions being made as to who did this. It seems the go to enemy is Muslim. Without any proof the media put it out there that it could possibly be a Muslim attack, because as we all know, normal white bread Americans aren't known to blow things up.

Journalism used to be a noble profession, now it's just words with no facts, a propaganda tool creating fear.

I am thinking it was some disgruntled dude from Greenland. Hell, they've been mad at us forever. Just ask any native of Greenland, they hate us for the clubbing of baby seals and global warming. Homeland Security missed that one.

All kidding aside. The type of person who did this was only one type, IDIOT. Idiots have been ruining it for everybody since forever. We need to police the idiots.

If there is anything good that came out of this it would be the common people looking after and caring for each other. It gives me hope for humanity.

Boston, I love you. You are all in my thoughts and prayers... B strong!

Chuck

Pensive Patriot (or, Revolution is a Young Man’s Game)

Twenty five years ago

I was all for revolution.

My insular world

made numbers

seem larger (one always feels part of the majority in a group of like minds)

Life goes on,

realization that nobody

actually cares (except for themselves and commodities)

a thread of apathy

running through our

fabric of indifference…..or some such thing…..

They (it’s always THEM!)

are counting on

perfunctory populist thought….or lack thereof….

It was THEM!

slowly stealing our country

as we turned a blind eye

to mediocris endeavors.

D.C. looks like WCW (or Adult Swim)

puffing, posturing,

saying nothing,

and doing less…..or nothing more than required…..

Meanwhile….

Our myopic eyes

feed on pseudo-reality

and bastardized journalism,

genetically modified organisms

eating what little

grey mush remaining

in the flickering glow of

PRIMETIME…..

WE NEED REVOLUTION! 

I am for revolution,

but a one man revolution

is considered

nothing more

than terrorism

by THEM,

at best,

a sure quick death,

(or folding Whitey Bulger’s laundry

after a romantic walk in the yard…)

And I’m not sure

I care that much

anymore…

Besides,

revolution is a young man’s game….

Pensive Patriot (or, Revolution is a Young Man’s Game)

Twenty five years ago

I was all for revolution.

My insular world

made numbers

seem larger (one always feels part of the majority in a group of like minds)

Life goes on,

realization that nobody

actually cares (except for themselves and commodities)

a thread of apathy

running through our

fabric of indifference…..or some such thing…..

They (it’s always THEM!)

are counting on

perfunctory populist thought….or lack thereof….

It was THEM!

slowly stealing our country

as we turned a blind eye

to mediocris endeavors.

D.C. looks like WCW (or Adult Swim)

puffing, posturing,

saying nothing,

and doing less…..or nothing more than required…..

Meanwhile….

Our myopic eyes

feed on pseudo-reality

and bastardized journalism,

genetically modified organisms

eating what little

grey mush remaining

in the flickering glow of

PRIMETIME…..

WE NEED REVOLUTION! 

I am for revolution,

but a one man revolution

is considered

nothing more

than terrorism

by THEM,

at best,

a sure quick death,

(or folding Whitey Bulger’s laundry

after a romantic walk in the yard…)

And I’m not sure

I care that much

anymore…

Besides,

revolution is a young man’s game….

Tiny Rant on Gay Marriage Debate...

What do I think of gay marriage? Absolutely nothing. As a a happily married heterosexual male I do not feel the least bit threatened if men marry men or women marry women. The institution of marriage is not jeopardized within the church, synagogue, or mosque. What business is it of mine or anyone else's for that matter, if some one would like the right to provide for their loved ones when they pass away? Meaning, this is a founding principle of our country, that of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, all of which is extended to those we care about. Most of us, if we are honest and not complete jerks, can agree that nothing would make one so happy on their death bed than to know that the ones you love are taken care of when you die, whomever they may be.

As a narrow minded bigot you have the right to your opinion. That right is guaranteed by our constitution. It also guarantees my right to say you are wrong and a cotton headed ninnymuggins.

As Christians we can defend non issues until we are blue in the face, but the argument remains footle when there are far more pressing issues that we can be addressing. Strain the gnats and swallow a fly. Ack!

I guess I do think something about it.....

First Sight- Umeus and Teeplo (Tony Plocido)

Check this out! Tony Plocido  Umeus feat. Teeplo-First Sight



I really dug the poem before the music. I really dig it with the music.. ENJOY!

First Sight- Umeus and Teeplo (Tony Plocido)

Check this out! Tony Plocido  Umeus feat. Teeplo-First Sight



I really dug the poem before the music. I really dig it with the music.. ENJOY!

Common Sense Drinks Alone

Common Sense

downs another shot

at the end of the bar.

He has been at it

for an hour or so,

and things out there

are starting to get fuzzy.

Now reality

comes in bits and waves,

an optical illusion,

made palatable

by carefully spun lies.

Corporate paltering

selling plasticine promises

of old age sex

and face paralyzing

beauty cream.

Another shot down,

the future looks

Dali-esque,

eyeballs hardening,

funhouse mirror reflects

aberations of the past.

Grabbing the bottle,

four fingers down,

and everything dims,

intentional vivisepulture,

fresh food for the worms.

Common Sense

found puking

behind the dumpster

in the alley,

while the Tea Party looks

for its Mad Hatter,

sitting on their hands

for the revolution to come.

Wiping his mouth,

bellicose bantering

from would be jingoists

fill his ears with

Pavlovian responses

to real world issues

manufactured by the

Fair and Balanced.

and tasting stale vomit,

Common Sense goes home.

Common Sense Drinks Alone

Common Sense

downs another shot

at the end of the bar.

He has been at it

for an hour or so,

and things out there

are starting to get fuzzy.

Now reality

comes in bits and waves,

an optical illusion,

made palatable

by carefully spun lies.

Corporate paltering

selling plasticine promises

of old age sex

and face paralyzing

beauty cream.

Another shot down,

the future looks

Dali-esque,

eyeballs hardening,

funhouse mirror reflects

aberations of the past.

Grabbing the bottle,

four fingers down,

and everything dims,

intentional vivisepulture,

fresh food for the worms.

Common Sense

found puking

behind the dumpster

in the alley,

while the Tea Party looks

for its Mad Hatter,

sitting on their hands

for the revolution to come.

Wiping his mouth,

bellicose bantering

from would be jingoists

fill his ears with

Pavlovian responses

to real world issues

manufactured by the

Fair and Balanced.

and tasting stale vomit,

Common Sense goes home.

Learned Poet (or Arrogant Jackass)

Your written eloquence
speaks nothing to
the eyes reading,
to the soul searching, 
the heart screaming!

Your attention to 
trivialities pound words,
like metal, into dull knives,
bruising more than cutting,
hacking the senses
into dullness,
into coma!

Your lettered names
prove nothing more
than ideas learned,
blinded lemming pride
the halls of academia!

You see, teacher,
a good poem
speaks to our souls, hearts,
coming from life lived
in the tragic,
the mundane,
and magnificent!

Learned Poet (or Arrogant Jackass)

Your written eloquence
speaks nothing to
the eyes reading,
to the soul searching, 
the heart screaming!

Your attention to 
trivialities pound words,
like metal, into dull knives,
bruising more than cutting,
hacking the senses
into dullness,
into coma!

Your lettered names
prove nothing more
than ideas learned,
blinded lemming pride
the halls of academia!

You see, teacher,
a good poem
speaks to our souls, hearts,
coming from life lived
in the tragic,
the mundane,
and magnificent!

Circus Nation

My country is hemorrhaging clowns.
Rather, Uncle Sam has taken a serious head wound 
and is hemorrhaging clowns.
Desipient pissants making footle decissions,
pissing on the poor and forgotten for rapacious gain.
Welcome to the politico 2013,
where common sense meets Walter Mitty
and nothing gets done.
Yup, my country is hemorrhaging clowns....

Circus Nation

My country is hemorrhaging clowns.
Rather, Uncle Sam has taken a serious head wound 
and is hemorrhaging clowns.
Desipient pissants making footle decissions,
pissing on the poor and forgotten for rapacious gain.
Welcome to the politico 2013,
where common sense meets Walter Mitty
and nothing gets done.
Yup, my country is hemorrhaging clowns....

My First Car

(Or, Am I Really That Small?)

In 1984 I was 18 years old, living in Southern Indiana with my dad. I had only been there for a little over a year. My dad, originally from that region, moved back there shortly after leaving me outside San Diego, to live in a tent.. –He had done this sort of thing before. Before leaving me in San Diego he left me, my brother and friend in Ensenada, Mexico for a few weeks with nothing more than a case of Squirt soda, a small bit of food, two bottles of tequila and forty dollars to get more food…..five miles away, without a car! I was in need of a change and stability and called my mom and step dad if I could move back with them in Massachusetts. In a couple of days I was on a plane to Boston to a life of relative safety and comfort.

I had only been there for a couple of weeks when my step dad got me a job as a security guard at the now defunct Wang Labs, his employer. What could go wrong?

It was an unarmed position. In retrospect this was a good thing for two reasons: 1. It only paid minimum wage (under $5.00 per hour)   2. At that time in my life I had a bit of an anger problem, the kind that does not mix well with firearms. However, I did have a really cool two way radio and a five pound Detex clock. The latter is a precursor to a man purse with absolutely no marsupial qualities. It did have a paper tape with pre-printed times on it. As a security guard I would walk around a certain route where there were little Detex boxes at specific locations with Detex keys in them. I would take the key, insert it in the clock and turn it to make an impression on the paper tape, thus giving them printed proof that I made the rounds and that everything was safe.

My only goals for this job were to stay awake and earn enough money to buy a car. Coffee and the Detex clock ensured that I would stay awake. Borrowing my mom’s 1980 Dodge Aspen kept me on the savings path.

I had worked for three months and was able to save a thousand dollars, more than enough money to buy a car back then. I found a few cars that I could afford, but didn’t like. I found a Pinto. Not wanting to die a fiery death I passed on that gem—another was a sweet late sixty’s Impala that I drove thirty miles to see only to find out it didn’t have an engine. What I bought was a Maroon, 1976, Chevy Cogsworth Vega. It had a five speed, aluminum engine block and an aftermarket forty watt Craig stereo system. (I blew the speakers out the second day I owned the car blasting Black Flag’s My War) Alas, it was to be a short love affair with General Motors Engineers hurried, cocaine and booze filled answer to produce a sports car known as the Vega. Its namesake, the brightest star in the constellation Lyra, didn’t have an effect on this car. 

At the time I thought it was a good car.

The first two weeks I owned the car had a dramatic effect on my weak time management skills. In that time I was late for work at least six times. I had just finished a meeting with my supervisor at the end of my shift, which ended with him giving me my last warning before being fired. So, being the responsible man boy, I went home and did what anyone in my shoes would do: Get ready to go out for the night.

That night I went to a show in or near Boston. I think it was Jerry’s Kids, Gang Green or some band like that. I knew that I would be home late, but working second shift meant that I could sleep until one or two in the afternoon with plenty of time to make it to work at 4.

I got home late as planned, went straight to bed and to sleep. I dreamt of whatever disturbing stuff that eighteen year olds dream of. That night we had an unusual round of thunderstorms that  woke me for only a minute. The transformer behind our house took a hit from a bolt of lightning, knocking out our power and my alarm clock. I do remember hearing an explosion and the later repair crews, but I figured that it was part of my dream and went back to sleep until 4:30pm.

I roll out of bed, head upstairs, start making coffee and hear the front door open. It’s my mom coming home from work. “Early day,” I ask.

“Nope. You not working today?”

Not realizing that she hadn’t come home early I replied, “Getting ready now.”

“Hmm, late start?”

“Why would she ask that?” I thought to myself.

I turned around to look at the only battery operated clock in the house…. 4:45!

“I’m late!”

I rushed downstairs, grabbed the nearest uniform off the floor (the one from the day before, complete with cucumber sauce stains from my Gyro dinner) getting dressed as I ran out the door yelling to my mom, “I may be home early!”

I looked at my watch. It was 4:50. Normally my commute was ten minutes. Of course there is always the traffic issue that plagues Boston and places close to Boston. I could make it there and only be an hour late. Surely my boss would understand and not fire me.

I am flying down the road. My bright and shining star is running great, Henry Rollins is screaming fuzzy nothings over the speakers; I think about love, maybe hate. No, definitely hate. I am thinking about possible excuses for my tardiness, not really paying attention.I am on auto pilot.

I had taken this route on Boston Road in Billerica many times. I coming up to a McDonald’s on my left. I say that the corner is a blind corner, when in actuality it is a pretty straight road at this point. There wasn’t a center turn lane and a few of my friends had accidents that involved rear-ending someone trying to turn left into McDonald’s.

I saw a couple of friends eating outside and yelled a testosterone fueled greeting, “Hey pussies!”

I look forward in just enough time to hit my brakes and suddenly heard the sound of screeching tires (mine) and metal hitting metal at forty five miles an hour. I slammed into the back of a full size Caprice station wagon, wedging my grill and hood underneath his back bumper. I also hit my head on the steering wheel, cutting my head right at my widow’s peak.  

I looked up, sort of dazed and saw the back of the Caprice. It was a rolling billboard for Jesus.

Jesus Loves You!

God Is My Co-Pilot

Let Me Tell You About My Best Friend

In Case Of Rapture, This Car Will Be Unmanned

And so on…

As I collected my thoughts and searched for a cigarette, Uber Christian tapped on my window, “Hey little buddy, you okay?”

First of all, pal, at 5’ 6” and 115lbs, I am not little! And secondly, when did we become friends?

As I got out of my car I noticed that Uber Christian was tall. Like 6’ 3” freakishly tall!

Maybe I am little…..

The conversation that followed was between me, Uber Christian and my friends.

UC: Are you okay?

Me: Yeah, I’m fine.

Friend #1: Hey Charlie, nice driving Mario! Ha!

Me: Shut up douche!

UC: You have a cut on your head (he lays a hand on my head) Father God….

Friend#2: Hey Charlie, doesn’t look like you’re going to burn in Hell now!

Me: Again, shut up douche! (pulling away from Uber Christian) and get your hands off me dick!

UC: In Jesus name, Amen.

This went on for a few more minute, ending with me telling Uber Christian that if he didn’t stop preaching at me I was going to jump up and hit him in the jaw. To which friend #2 yelled, “I don’t think you can jump that high!”

Maybe I am short….

The cops finally showed up, took all our information and called a tow truck. The wrecked shining star became a faded memory of its old self in my mom and step dads back yard, eventually being sold for scrap while I was in the Army fighting the Cold War.

There are a few things I learned from this episode in my life:

1    1.  Vegas aren’t really that cool.

2    2.   A car accident is a good excuse if you are not habitually tardy.

3    3.    I need to pick better friends.

      

      And I may indeed be small.