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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© 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