Stories, Poems and Other Stuff...

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

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

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.

© 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

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

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


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.




© 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

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.



© 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

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.

© 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

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.....

© 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 19th 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 19th 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

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