I am on a break..

 If you haven't noticed yet, I have taken a bit of a break from this blog. I have been focusing my efforts over at Strike Magazine, Facebook and submitting the occasional poem here and there. I will be back in due time. Until then, check out Strike Magazine...



© Charles Scott 2014

First Article at Strike Magazine

Recent piece at Strike Magazine... Check it out here.





© Charles Scott 2014

Screaming Sundays: Good Writing is at Your Fingertips

Screaming Sundays at Screaming With Brevity.

Good Writing is at Your Fingertips

Thank you to Matthew J. Hall for asking me to contribute.

Screaming Sundays: The Apathy of Our Species

 SCREAMING SUNDAYS

Fear..Healthy Fear..Common Sense

 

As a writer I am forced to research certain topics in order to have some sort of subject knowledge. I must admit that I really like that aspect of writing. It enables me to learn something new, find obscure facts that help me win a game of Trivial Pursuit, and gives me the ability to correct people when they are talking out their asses. Okay, that last part never happens. I am usually the one talking out my ass.

There is a damn good reason I stumbled upon the topic of phobias.

The actual bunny trail started on a holiday outing with the family and friends. There we were, enjoying each others company, conversation and food. These events, more often than not, involve each family bringing some sort of food contribution. Everybody loads up their plates and feasts like its the last meal any of us will ever eat. (Merica!) Afterwards, we sit around, watch the kids do what kids do, talk, drink and mosey back to the table to pick at food.

I was sitting at the table, minding my own business, munching on a bag of chips. I was content. Out of nowhere one of the rugrats sat down next to me, grabbed the bag of chips and started eating. The problem is the little fellas process in eating those chips.

Hand in bag.

Chips to mouth.

Lick the flavor off his fingers.

Hand back in bag.

He must have decided that he had his fill and handed the bag back to me, taking off to the playground of dismemberment and death.

I threw up a little in my mouth at the thought of what kind of nasty microbe was lurking in that bag. I sat it down. No sooner had I sat it down another kid grabbed it and proceeded to do the same thing. I found out days later that all of the kids there that day had gotten sick. All of them except that little Typhoid Kevin who was the first to grab that bag of chips from me.

As I recalled that fateful day I found myself wondering if I was being unreasonable. Was my concern a healthy one, or did I have a phobia...Off to the internet for free medical diagnosis I went.

Here is an interesting fact. There are a lot of phobias!

Here is another fact. Some of the names associated with some of these phobias will throw you off, and others are spot on.

An example of this would be spermophobia. At first glance, one would think that it is a fear of sperm. But no, it's not that simple. It means a fear of germs.

How about bathophobia? Fear of baths it is not. It is the fear of depth.

What the hell?

Some are down right funny and I cannot believe they are actual fears.

Macrophobia: The fear of long waits. (I suffer from this to the point of anger.)

Politicophobia: The fear of politicians.

Pogonophobia: The fear of beards. (I am slightly pogonophobic in that I only fear beards worn by hipsters.)

Hierophobia. The fear of priests. (I am not too sure if this is an unhealthy fear)

Dikephobia: The fear of justice. (Okay, that made me snicker.)

Coprophobia: The fear of feces. (I think this applies to most of us)

After reading the list of phobias, I am compelled to add one more to that list.

Boogerdigitsinmychipbagphobia: the fear of kids reaching into a bag of chips.

© Charles Scott 2014

 Screaming Sundays Coming July 6th at Screaming With Brevity.

This is My Last Political Commentary Poem (or so it seems)

To all who are concerned, those reading this, and anyone half interested:

This is my last political commentary poem.
You see, I feel I have exhausted this topic
and am growing bored with it all.
Maybe I will write a sonnet, an ode
or a beautiful poem to some backwoods retreat.
Maybe I will explore more free verse
that tells the stories of people encountered...

a voice for the voiceless.

Of course, I reserve the right to rescind this declaration
in the event another Bush is elected
to the White House, or the population
of the Rotund Rascal Riders reaches 30 percent.

If at any time the Tea Party is actually taken seriously
I will have to take up my pen.
This is a moral obligation
that negates anything else I may have said
or written.

(When the snake of stupidity rears its doltish head, one must cut said head off to save oneself from madness.)

Viva la Revolution!

So, until then I leave with this:

Our freedom is a facade
covering corruption.

True freedom is within our minds.
True freedom lies within you.

When all else fails,
fight!

Fascism is alive and well
fighting the war on
terrorism.

Slavery is present
in the quest for everyday
low prices.

Racism survived the
holocaust of
equal opportunity.


© Charles Scott 2014

Thinking About Life Choices That Didn't Revolve Around Me

 

To be a true PUNK

is to be what

your parents

were not.

To cast aside

your desires,

aspirations,

fucking dreams,

for those

you brought into

this world.

Never trust a hippie.

They will always

follow

their

libido.

Real PUNKS

are what

their parents

never

were.

PARENTS!

© Charles Scott 2014

From Russia With Love

 

 I was checking out my stats tonight and I noticed that there are 10 Russians who have been checking out my blog. It could also be Snowden checking 10 times. Hard to tell. 

I will read for food and vodka...and a plane ticket (round trip) cheap cigars and those little babushka dolls,

Charles Scott: Juggler of Words and Thoughts  ·  Stats  ›  Audience

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Send feedback

© Charles Scott 2014

Screaming Sundays

Do you read?
Do you write?
Do you spend endless hours reading and writing?
Click this link and engage!

Advice

Never pass on the chance to use a toilet.

This is especially prudent when traveling eastward

from Barstow.

Sure, you can pull off to the side of the road,

but you run into the chance of getting bit by a scorpion

with your pants down. Nobody wants to leave a corpse

that way.

Don't eat seafood in Kansas City, or anywhere within

a 800 mile radius.

Doing so will swear one off of lobster forever.

Trust me on this one.

Never pick your nose in traffic.

You are not invisible while in your car.

Make sure to tell those dear to you that you

love them.

Make sure to tell your adversaries that you

hate them.

Say hi to your mailman. He has a hard job and enjoys idle

chit chat.

Create at least one thing in your life.

Children don't count. That's a colaboraton.

Clean out your wallet once in a while.

Sometimes you'll find cash that you forgot about

because you are getting older.

Don't tell others what to do.

Don't let others tell you what

to do.

Never make your bed.

Drink a lot of beer in moderation.

Only shop at Walmart for entertainment.

Be all that you can be,

but not in the Army.

Most of all,

don't listen to the advice from anyone

willing to give it freely.

© Charles Scott 2014

*I may have to add to this as time goes by*

Parent of the Year (or, making beer money with dad)

 

CRACK!

I never saw the old man

move that fast.

I mean, one minute he's

holding a cue, the next

he's hitting this poor mark
with 18 oz of wood
on the side of the head.

That poor guy didn't see

it coming.

Hell, I didn't see it

coming.

"C'mon, we gotta go,"

I tell my dad as he is grabbing the guys money

off the table.

I pull dad along as stunned,

angry,

rednecks

start to head our way.

Okay, let me tell you,

I thought I was dead,

or at best

left in a coma

if we didn't leave.

If he weren't my dad

I would have left him.

I know any other

hustling,

drunk,

septuagenarian

would have died that night.

I pushed the old man

into the Cordoba,

prayed it would

start. (it did)

We peeled away,

no headlights in the

rear view.

"How much did we make?"

I asked.

"$40.00."

The rest of the ride home

was silent.

© Charles Scott 2014

From Matthew J. Hall

 This needs to be in a physical form that fits into a back pocket to be taken out more often than not and read.



From the Depths and Through the Madness

From Matthew J. Hall

 This needs to be in a physical form that fits into a back pocket to be taken out more often than not and read.



From the Depths and Through the Madness

Rainy Day

Rainy Day

Kicking Myself In The Ass

Saturday mornings are generally quiet times for me. After having to wake up at 5:30 for the last twenty or so years, my body has been conditioned to wake up at the same time each day. I like the chance for quiet reflection, reading, writing and clearing my head from the hectic week before. This Saturday I was on my third cup of coffee, catching up on blogs and emails when I found myself thinking about where I am in regards to my poetry, writing and where I want to go with all of this “artistic” endeavor.

This age of blogs and social networking has made it easy to be a part of any community without actually being in physical contact. I am part of a few poetry groups on Facebook. I regularly check out what others are doing within the poetry scene locally. Yet it has occurred to me that I do not get out and physically network with people. Okay, networking sounds like a selfish, look at me approach. What I am trying to convey here is that I don't get out and interact with other writers and poets in my area (and there are a lot of stellar poets and writers in Kansas City) In the last year I have been to one poetry reading. Just one. I really enjoyed it. I always have the intention of going to any of the regularly scheduled readings, events and so on. Somehow life gets in the way. (usually in the form of a twelve hour day, on call schedule and everyday existence)

This got me to thinking about the number one excuse people, who say they are writers, use when trying to justify their lack of progress. The, “I don't have enough time to write.” defense.

A lot of writers, those writing, have full time jobs that have nothing to do with writing. They also have families, bills and are forced to do the menial tasks needed for everyday life. I know Bukowski had a shitty time suck job. I also know he did his own laundry at the laundromat. (I watched Born Into This the other night and he was filmed loading his laundry into his car) I am pretty sure Vonnegut mowed his own lawn. Hell, he even sold two stroke Saabs after his first published novel!

I write this with lofty aspirations of being a full time writer one day. This may be realized on the day of my retirement from plumbing. It may come sooner. I don't know. I have never been good at reading the stars. Like any other occupation, I know that I will have to get out and meet people, join a group or workshop. When I decided to put more time and effort into writing I knew it would be hard. It has paid off in, if nothing else, the satisfaction in knowing that I am creating something. Knowing that, in the truest sense, I am a Writer. Now I just need to get out and present it.

So, to the poets and writers in Kansas City I want to say thank you for inviting me to events. I ask that you continue to do so. I also ask that, if you see me in a bookstore, walking down the street or driving through Kansas City that you would grab me by the neck and force me to attend something. I am easily lured by whiskey, beer and sometimes cheese.

Also, after checking out my blog stats, I have noticed that I have been getting hits from the U.K., Germany, Lithuania, France and the U.S.A.. Let it be known, I like to travel. Hit me up. As I said before, I am easily lured by whiskey, beer and sometimes cheese. I am always lured by cash.

© Charles Scott 2014

Kicking Myself In The Ass

Saturday mornings are generally quiet times for me. After having to wake up at 5:30 for the last twenty or so years, my body has been conditioned to wake up at the same time each day. I like the chance for quiet reflection, reading, writing and clearing my head from the hectic week before. This Saturday I was on my third cup of coffee, catching up on blogs and emails when I found myself thinking about where I am in regards to my poetry, writing and where I want to go with all of this “artistic” endeavor.

This age of blogs and social networking has made it easy to be a part of any community without actually being in physical contact. I am part of a few poetry groups on Facebook. I regularly check out what others are doing within the poetry scene locally. Yet it has occurred to me that I do not get out and physically network with people. Okay, networking sounds like a selfish, look at me approach. What I am trying to convey here is that I don't get out and interact with other writers and poets in my area (and there are a lot of stellar poets and writers in Kansas City) In the last year I have been to one poetry reading. Just one. I really enjoyed it. I always have the intention of going to any of the regularly scheduled readings, events and so on. Somehow life gets in the way. (usually in the form of a twelve hour day, on call schedule and everyday existence)

This got me to thinking about the number one excuse people, who say they are writers, use when trying to justify their lack of progress. The, “I don't have enough time to write.” defense.

A lot of writers, those writing, have full time jobs that have nothing to do with writing. They also have families, bills and are forced to do the menial tasks needed for everyday life. I know Bukowski had a shitty time suck job. I also know he did his own laundry at the laundromat. (I watched Born Into This the other night and he was filmed loading his laundry into his car) I am pretty sure Vonnegut mowed his own lawn. Hell, he even sold two stroke Saabs after his first published novel!

I write this with lofty aspirations of being a full time writer one day. This may be realized on the day of my retirement from plumbing. It may come sooner. I don't know. I have never been good at reading the stars. Like any other occupation, I know that I will have to get out and meet people, join a group or workshop. When I decided to put more time and effort into writing I knew it would be hard. It has paid off in, if nothing else, the satisfaction in knowing that I am creating something. Knowing that, in the truest sense, I am a Writer. Now I just need to get out and present it.

So, to the poets and writers in Kansas City I want to say thank you for inviting me to events. I ask that you continue to do so. I also ask that, if you see me in a bookstore, walking down the street or driving through Kansas City that you would grab me by the neck and force me to attend something. I am easily lured by whiskey, beer and sometimes cheese.

Also, after checking out my blog stats, I have noticed that I have been getting hits from the U.K., Germany, Lithuania, France and the U.S.A.. Let it be known, I like to travel. Hit me up. As I said before, I am easily lured by whiskey, beer and sometimes cheese. I am always lured by cash.

© Charles Scott 2014

A Poem Written for Those of Us Waking Up and Realizing We Got on the Wrong Bus

 

I'm mad....

I am pissed off

at the whole

bill of goods.

Epiphany sucks

the marrow

out of the

strongest of bones!

© Charles Scott 2014

A Poem Written for Those of Us Waking Up and Realizing We Got on the Wrong Bus

 

I'm mad....

I am pissed off

at the whole

bill of goods.

Epiphany sucks

the marrow

out of the

strongest of bones!

© Charles Scott 2014

A bit of Editing

The only break I got was her ducking out to snort a couple of rails and me hiding in the restroom

to catch a quick nap on the toilet. We were the only 2 people, other than the ticket lady and janitor,

in the bus station. This made certain our future as travel buddies.

A travel buddy, for those in the know, is someone you would never pal around with outside long bus trips, rides to prison or Rainbow Gatherings. They are not the sort of people you would bring home to meet the family, or want to be seen with in daylight.

 

© Charles Scott 2014

A bit of Editing

The only break I got was her ducking out to snort a couple of rails and me hiding in the restroom

to catch a quick nap on the toilet. We were the only 2 people, other than the ticket lady and janitor,

in the bus station. This made certain our future as travel buddies.

A travel buddy, for those in the know, is someone you would never pal around with outside long bus trips, rides to prison or Rainbow Gatherings. They are not the sort of people you would bring home to meet the family, or want to be seen with in daylight.

 

© Charles Scott 2014

A Good Poem

I was asked,

“When do you know you have written a good poem?”

Oh, the question

I have yet to answer.

I don't know. I haven't written one yet.

Bad poetry is easy to spot,

but a good one

takes time to read, ingest,

digest.- whereas,

a bad one burns

the stomach

and no amount

of antacid, Pepto

or Prilosec

will cure it.

A good poem

makes the poet go mad

looking for

the right word

-not any word-

the perfect word,

torn from the bone

and placed on the plate

to be devoured,

filling the gut.

Yet still needing to

mirror life,

mundane...exciting,

mediocre...explosive!

A good poem,

to the poet,

is as evasive as

The Flying Dutchman,

Elvis or

D.B. Cooper.

A good poem

is best created at night (so says Hank)

anything else is like

running naked through a shopping mall.

It is best created

with a warm buzz

of beer,

whiskey

or cheap homemade wine.

The lack of either creates MADNESS.

The surfeit creates

beauty.

A good poem

rips the heart out,

mends the soul,

exposes the truth

and exaggerates

the

mundane.


© Charles Scott 2014

A Good Poem

I was asked,

“When do you know you have written a good poem?”

Oh, the question

I have yet to answer.

I don't know. I haven't written one yet.

Bad poetry is easy to spot,

but a good one

takes time to read, ingest,

digest.- whereas,

a bad one burns

the stomach

and no amount

of antacid, Pepto

or Prilosec

will cure it.

A good poem

makes the poet go mad

looking for

the right word

-not any word-

the perfect word,

torn from the bone

and placed on the plate

to be devoured,

filling the gut.

Yet still needing to

mirror life,

mundane...exciting,

mediocre...explosive!

A good poem,

to the poet,

is as evasive as

The Flying Dutchman,

Elvis or

D.B. Cooper.

A good poem

is best created at night (so says Hank)

anything else is like

running naked through a shopping mall.

It is best created

with a warm buzz

of beer,

whiskey

or cheap homemade wine.

The lack of either creates MADNESS.

The surfeit creates

beauty.

A good poem

rips the heart out,

mends the soul,

exposes the truth

and exaggerates

the

mundane.


© Charles Scott 2014

Slow Motion Death Sentence

Will someone get me another beer?

As I sit here watching the faithful few,

playing pool, 

as they drink PBR

and hope for sex,

I see the trapped.

Trapped in the mundane.

Trapped in the routine.

Trapped in some white trash birthright.

The flashes of neon beer signs

flicker in such a way

that slows down their mediocre existence,

staving off death one second at a time.

Slow motion death sentence.

I am but a visitor now.

I broke out of your prison.

For now,

will someone get me another beer?

© Charles Scott 2014

Slow Motion Death Sentence

Will someone get me another beer?

As I sit here watching the faithful few,

playing pool, 

as they drink PBR

and hope for sex,

I see the trapped.

Trapped in the mundane.

Trapped in the routine.

Trapped in some white trash birthright.

The flashes of neon beer signs

flicker in such a way

that slows down their mediocre existence,

staving off death one second at a time.

Slow motion death sentence.

I am but a visitor now.

I broke out of your prison.

For now,

will someone get me another beer?

© Charles Scott 2014

Work In Progress

 I stuck my leg through the straps of my duffel bag for security measures,
covered my eyes with my hat,
sleeping, not really sleeping,
yet knowing I was falling asleep,
when I was startled
by a lispy, Cindy Brady voice,
the kind that is only produced by missing teeth.

“Ith thith theat taken?”

(For those in the know,
any bus station in the middle of the night has plenty of seating.)

I pulled my hat back,
looked up and saw her.
Her look was confusing to me.
She appeared to be in her forties, but carried herself like a teenager.
Her eyes were sunken. She was rail thin
and she was smiling with the grin of an old school hockey goalie.

“Well, ith thith theat taken?”




© Charles Scott 2014

Work In Progress

 I stuck my leg through the straps of my duffel bag for security measures,
covered my eyes with my hat,
sleeping, not really sleeping,
yet knowing I was falling asleep,
when I was startled
by a lispy, Cindy Brady voice,
the kind that is only produced by missing teeth.

“Ith thith theat taken?”

(For those in the know,
any bus station in the middle of the night has plenty of seating.)

I pulled my hat back,
looked up and saw her.
Her look was confusing to me.
She appeared to be in her forties, but carried herself like a teenager.
Her eyes were sunken. She was rail thin
and she was smiling with the grin of an old school hockey goalie.

“Well, ith thith theat taken?”




© Charles Scott 2014

In the spirit of poetry month i offer shit

It's poetry month and I have managed to feel the need to produce at least one poem. Well, I have been working on a few poems for the last few months. What I have shared recently have been written hastily. I also feel the need to apologize for posting poems that were written in a matter of minutes under the warm buzz of some spirit. However, due to some genetic defect I am unable to do so. It is what it is folks. The really good poem, the one that will knock me on my ass, leaving me to wonder where in the hell did that come from, is going to manifest itself. Until then I do it out of ego and insecurity.

© Charles Scott 2014

In the spirit of poetry month i offer shit

It's poetry month and I have managed to feel the need to produce at least one poem. Well, I have been working on a few poems for the last few months. What I have shared recently have been written hastily. I also feel the need to apologize for posting poems that were written in a matter of minutes under the warm buzz of some spirit. However, due to some genetic defect I am unable to do so. It is what it is folks. The really good poem, the one that will knock me on my ass, leaving me to wonder where in the hell did that come from, is going to manifest itself. Until then I do it out of ego and insecurity.

© Charles Scott 2014

One Should Never Surf The Internet Looking For Art While Drinking Whiskey

 

Everyone is an artist, writer,

poet or some sort of bullshit

creative type.

The shitty “artists”

are the famous ones,

famous for making shit.

The real artists,

the ones who are greatness

work, create and starve.

Marketing is king,

art (good or bad) is relegated

to clicks and likes.

© Charles Scott 2014

One Should Never Surf The Internet Looking For Art While Drinking Whiskey

 

Everyone is an artist, writer,

poet or some sort of bullshit

creative type.

The shitty “artists”

are the famous ones,

famous for making shit.

The real artists,

the ones who are greatness

work, create and starve.

Marketing is king,

art (good or bad) is relegated

to clicks and likes.

© Charles Scott 2014

A Bit Of Something I Am Working On

She dropped her bag on the floor

and plopped all 95 pounds

of her body into the seat next to me.

She had a smell of cigarettes,

day old Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific

and bus toilet sanitizer.

She had just smoked a cigarette,

washed her hair

in some bus station bathroom the day before

and, as far as the toilet smell,

if you use the bus toilet

while rolling down the great american highway

you will have that lingering smell

until your next chance

to wash your clothes.

© Charles Scott 2014

A Bit Of Something I Am Working On

She dropped her bag on the floor

and plopped all 95 pounds

of her body into the seat next to me.

She had a smell of cigarettes,

day old Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific

and bus toilet sanitizer.

She had just smoked a cigarette,

washed her hair

in some bus station bathroom the day before

and, as far as the toilet smell,

if you use the bus toilet

while rolling down the great american highway

you will have that lingering smell

until your next chance

to wash your clothes.

© Charles Scott 2014

Because I Like This Poem: Humanity by Gregory Corso

What simple profundities
What profound simplicities
To sit down among the trees
and breathe with them
in murmur brool and breeze —

And how can I trust them
who pollute the sky
with heavens
the below with hells

Well, humankind,
I’m part of you
and so my son

but neither of us
will believe
your big sad lie

Because I Like This Poem: Humanity by Gregory Corso

What simple profundities
What profound simplicities
To sit down among the trees
and breathe with them
in murmur brool and breeze —

And how can I trust them
who pollute the sky
with heavens
the below with hells

Well, humankind,
I’m part of you
and so my son

but neither of us
will believe
your big sad lie

Toxic

 

I had to leave, under the cover of night. Any other way

would have made me second guess my feelings for you and

I would have stayed.

You cut me deep, the wounds are still bleeding.

They won't heal. The blood a constant reminder,

along with broken bone limp.

It was hard to stand tall with the weight of

those who suffered before. Standing in line

for the next handout, from the benevolent adviser,

from those who control.

But I see you are broken too. I see through your veil,

a glimpse of your pain, of hungry nights, lonely days

and yearning for something better.

As I pick at these wounds, I see bits of you inside,

I tweeze them out with medical precision;

casting them aside for the dogs to eat.

One day the wounds will heal and the scars

will be a distant reminder.

© Charles Scott 2014

Toxic

 

I had to leave, under the cover of night. Any other way

would have made me second guess my feelings for you and

I would have stayed.

You cut me deep, the wounds are still bleeding.

They won't heal. The blood a constant reminder,

along with broken bone limp.

It was hard to stand tall with the weight of

those who suffered before. Standing in line

for the next handout, from the benevolent adviser,

from those who control.

But I see you are broken too. I see through your veil,

a glimpse of your pain, of hungry nights, lonely days

and yearning for something better.

As I pick at these wounds, I see bits of you inside,

I tweeze them out with medical precision;

casting them aside for the dogs to eat.

One day the wounds will heal and the scars

will be a distant reminder.

© Charles Scott 2014

Hey France, hook me up!

According to Blogger stats I am building an audience in France. Any French followers looking to pay for me to come and read hit me up. 


© Charles Scott 2014

Hey France, hook me up!

According to Blogger stats I am building an audience in France. Any French followers looking to pay for me to come and read hit me up. 


© Charles Scott 2014

Found Fortune on the Way Home

 

Walking, at 3 am, in the land of

Bathtub Mary, low rent and cockroach colonies;

I find a 10 dollar bill.

I pick it up, smile and know

that tomorrow I eat.

© Charles Scott 2014

Found Fortune on the Way Home

 

Walking, at 3 am, in the land of

Bathtub Mary, low rent and cockroach colonies;

I find a 10 dollar bill.

I pick it up, smile and know

that tomorrow I eat.

© Charles Scott 2014

Poets I Like

I have finally started to add to the Poets I Like tab. Check it out now and periodically. I will be adding to it as time allows.


© Charles Scott 2014

Poets I Like

I have finally started to add to the Poets I Like tab. Check it out now and periodically. I will be adding to it as time allows.


© Charles Scott 2014

Tinnitus

 

It's 1am

and I feel compelled

to write a poem.

In the distance

a train sings it's

lonely song.

I imagine it is

going to some place

I haven't been.

Maybe Denver,

Omaha or,

Frigid Fork something

or other.

It's taking coal to the

power plant.

No adventure in that.

The train cries off

into the distance,

and I am left with

silence and this damned

ringing in my ears.

© Charles Scott 2014

Tinnitus

 

It's 1am

and I feel compelled

to write a poem.

In the distance

a train sings it's

lonely song.

I imagine it is

going to some place

I haven't been.

Maybe Denver,

Omaha or,

Frigid Fork something

or other.

It's taking coal to the

power plant.

No adventure in that.

The train cries off

into the distance,

and I am left with

silence and this damned

ringing in my ears.

© Charles Scott 2014

One Day in the Park

 

People walking by

as I sit and watch,

my super power,

reading of minds,

kicks in.

An old man,

with a stern face

is thinking about

how he shouldn't have answered

that email from the

deposed king from Africa.

Now he's out $200.00!

And his bank account is closed.

A lady walking her

shizu, wishes the

damn dog would crap

so she can get home

to watch American Idol.

That was an easy one.

She was holding a plastic bag.

A lady in a long skirt

and pentecostal bun

is fretting over the idea that,

any day now, the government

will force her to get micro chipped.

She sent money for a prayer cloth

to a televangelist.

A homeless man

talking to himself,

has all sorts of crazy shit

going on in his head....

He's nuts!

A cheap bottle of whiskey

will quiet those voices later on.

This goes on for hours;

a suicide case

waiting to happen.

A couple of frat boys

hoping no one finds out

their love for each other.

A Chinese man

who I can't understand

(all super powers have limits)

An old widower

wishing death would come soon

so he could see his love.

A banker and a drug dealer

thinking about one thing:

Money.

All of these people

have one thing in common:

Life.....

© Charles Scott 2014

One Day in the Park

 

People walking by

as I sit and watch,

my super power,

reading of minds,

kicks in.

An old man,

with a stern face

is thinking about

how he shouldn't have answered

that email from the

deposed king from Africa.

Now he's out $200.00!

And his bank account is closed.

A lady walking her

shizu, wishes the

damn dog would crap

so she can get home

to watch American Idol.

That was an easy one.

She was holding a plastic bag.

A lady in a long skirt

and pentecostal bun

is fretting over the idea that,

any day now, the government

will force her to get micro chipped.

She sent money for a prayer cloth

to a televangelist.

A homeless man

talking to himself,

has all sorts of crazy shit

going on in his head....

He's nuts!

A cheap bottle of whiskey

will quiet those voices later on.

This goes on for hours;

a suicide case

waiting to happen.

A couple of frat boys

hoping no one finds out

their love for each other.

A Chinese man

who I can't understand

(all super powers have limits)

An old widower

wishing death would come soon

so he could see his love.

A banker and a drug dealer

thinking about one thing:

Money.

All of these people

have one thing in common:

Life.....

© Charles Scott 2014

New Apartment

Another rainy winter day in the O.C.

Dad and I, and one of my friends, the friend with a truck

and a need for a six pack of beer and a little crystal,

move the little furniture we own

(all Salvation Army chic with previous owners dead skin and lost change)

into our new apartment off of 19^th street Costa Mesa.

We get done quickly.

All of our shit is wet.

We're wet.

The dust mites are wet.

Speedy (the pick up friend)

tells us he has to go. After seeing him pick at his face

I knew it

wouldn't be long.

As far as tweakers  go, he is one of the better ones.

I head to my new room. A room like all the others;

painted white, nicotine stained curtains

and a view of some other apartment.

I open the window as a police helicopter passes over.

Dad calls me to the living room.

I sit down on our new couch,

thinking about how many dust mites I am crushing;

Dad hands me a brown paper bag.

I open the bag and find a quarter bag inside.

Ignoring the surreal moment

of a father handing his fifteen year old son a bag of dope,

I open the quarter, raise it to my nose and take a big sniff.

Damn Dad, that is some good smelling bud!

Dad reaches into his pocket,

pulls out a bowl and hands it to me.....Load it up.

That moment it hits me,

I am about to get high with my dad!

I load it, light it and pass it to Dad.

He takes a long toke, holds it in

and then lets out a cumulus cloud

of spent smoke.

We load it a few more times.

I start to feel the familiar heaviness

of a good buzz.

I forget about the dust mites.

I forget about my dad

and I enjoy the moment.

© Charles Scott 2014

New Apartment

Another rainy winter day in the O.C.

Dad and I, and one of my friends, the friend with a truck

and a need for a six pack of beer and a little crystal,

move the little furniture we own

(all Salvation Army chic with previous owners dead skin and lost change)

into our new apartment off of 19^th street Costa Mesa.

We get done quickly.

All of our shit is wet.

We're wet.

The dust mites are wet.

Speedy (the pick up friend)

tells us he has to go. After seeing him pick at his face

I knew it

wouldn't be long.

As far as tweakers  go, he is one of the better ones.

I head to my new room. A room like all the others;

painted white, nicotine stained curtains

and a view of some other apartment.

I open the window as a police helicopter passes over.

Dad calls me to the living room.

I sit down on our new couch,

thinking about how many dust mites I am crushing;

Dad hands me a brown paper bag.

I open the bag and find a quarter bag inside.

Ignoring the surreal moment

of a father handing his fifteen year old son a bag of dope,

I open the quarter, raise it to my nose and take a big sniff.

Damn Dad, that is some good smelling bud!

Dad reaches into his pocket,

pulls out a bowl and hands it to me.....Load it up.

That moment it hits me,

I am about to get high with my dad!

I load it, light it and pass it to Dad.

He takes a long toke, holds it in

and then lets out a cumulus cloud

of spent smoke.

We load it a few more times.

I start to feel the familiar heaviness

of a good buzz.

I forget about the dust mites.

I forget about my dad

and I enjoy the moment.

© Charles Scott 2014

The Day Dave Went Punk

One day Dave just went bat shit crazy. He skipped school with his friend Pete Paraquat; ending up at Pete's house. One thing led to another and Dave found himself getting a mohawk. After several marijuanas Pete was able to talk Dave into coloring his new mohawk red. To celebrate they took some more marihuanas and ripped the sleeves off of their flannel shirts.

It was getting late and Dave had to go home. Pete offered to give Dave a ride home on his Huffy bike; which Dave accepted. They rode up the sidewalk in front of Dave's house as Dave's dad pulled into the driveway. Mr. Cruz took one look at his son and became furious. “Get in the house now young man!”

“Okay Pops,” Dave snarled.

Dave walked into the house, passed his mother in the doorway and she started crying. “Oh, my worst nightmare ever! What has happened to my son? David, who did this to you?”

“Did what?”

Who made you..you..PUNK?”

© Charles Scott 2014