Stories, Poems and Other Stuff...

Monday, May 26, 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

Saturday, May 24, 2014

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

Saturday, May 17, 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

Saturday, May 10, 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

Tuesday, May 06, 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