Notes of a GenX Senior: 04/01/2014

Sunday, April 27, 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

Saturday, April 26, 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.

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.

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.

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.

Sunday, April 20, 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

Saturday, April 19, 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.

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.

Sunday, April 13, 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.

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.

Saturday, April 12, 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

Sunday, April 06, 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.

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.

Saturday, April 05, 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.....

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.....

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.

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.

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?”

The Day Dave Went Punk

“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?”