Stories, Poems and Other Stuff...

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Two Poems Bukowski

gamblers all

sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think,
I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside
remembering all the times you've felt that way, and
you walk to the bathroom, do your toilet, see that face
in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair anyway,
get into your street clothes, feed the cats, fetch the
newspaper of horror, place it on the coffee table, kiss your
wife goodbye, and then you are backing the car out into life itself,
like millions of others you enter the arena once more.

you are on the freeway threading through traffic now,
moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punch
the radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehow
get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull
days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful
and so disappointing because
we are all so alike and so different.

you find the turn-off, drive through the most dangerous
part of town, feel momentarily wonderful as Mozart works
his way into your brain and slides down along your bones and
out through your shoes.

it's been a tough fight worth fighting
as we all drive along
betting on another day. 

What A Writer

what i liked about e.e. cummings
was that he cut away from
the holiness of the
word
and with charm
and gamble
gave us lines
that sliced through the
dung.

how it was needed!
how we were withering
away
in the old
tired
manner.

of course, then came all
the e.e. cummings
copyists.
they copied him then
as the others had
copied Keats, Shelly,
Swinburne, Byron, et
al.

but there was only
one
e.e. cummings.
of course.

one sun.

one moon. 


Two Poems Bukowski

gamblers all

sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think,
I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside
remembering all the times you've felt that way, and
you walk to the bathroom, do your toilet, see that face
in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair anyway,
get into your street clothes, feed the cats, fetch the
newspaper of horror, place it on the coffee table, kiss your
wife goodbye, and then you are backing the car out into life itself,
like millions of others you enter the arena once more.

you are on the freeway threading through traffic now,
moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punch
the radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehow
get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull
days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful
and so disappointing because
we are all so alike and so different.

you find the turn-off, drive through the most dangerous
part of town, feel momentarily wonderful as Mozart works
his way into your brain and slides down along your bones and
out through your shoes.

it's been a tough fight worth fighting
as we all drive along
betting on another day. 

What A Writer

what i liked about e.e. cummings
was that he cut away from
the holiness of the
word
and with charm
and gamble
gave us lines
that sliced through the
dung.

how it was needed!
how we were withering
away
in the old
tired
manner.

of course, then came all
the e.e. cummings
copyists.
they copied him then
as the others had
copied Keats, Shelly,
Swinburne, Byron, et
al.

but there was only
one
e.e. cummings.
of course.

one sun.

one moon. 


Saturday, December 28, 2013

Share this blog....

#poetry #poems #ranting #lunatic

© Chuck Scott 2013
Share this blog....

#poetry #poems #ranting #lunatic

© Chuck Scott 2013

2 Poems

Visions of the Internet Anarchist

Revolution is a series
of keystrokes, in a 
dark room with the glow
of a laptop.
Triple espresso mocha latte
to the right,
all natural cigarettes
on the table, and many more
snuffed out in the ashtray
to the left.

And Julian Assange is
aroused.....





Same Shit, Different Day

Time fades from the past
bright in the present,
slowly lighting the future.

Hazy memories
hide present mistakes
destined to repeat,
as the future grows brighter.

Never learning,
stagnant, always moving
forward.



© Chuck Scott 2013

2 Poems

Visions of the Internet Anarchist

Revolution is a series
of keystrokes, in a 
dark room with the glow
of a laptop.
Triple espresso mocha latte
to the right,
all natural cigarettes
on the table, and many more
snuffed out in the ashtray
to the left.

And Julian Assange is
aroused.....





Same Shit, Different Day

Time fades from the past
bright in the present,
slowly lighting the future.

Hazy memories
hide present mistakes
destined to repeat,
as the future grows brighter.

Never learning,
stagnant, always moving
forward.



© Chuck Scott 2013

Saturday, June 15, 2013

chuck scott: Five Questions with Chuck Scott

chuck scott: Five Questions with Chuck Scott: *Some days I have lots of time to daydream. This is a result of my daydreaming of being a published novelist/essayist/blogger of great renow...


chuck scott: Five Questions with Chuck Scott

chuck scott: Five Questions with Chuck Scott: *Some days I have lots of time to daydream. This is a result of my daydreaming of being a published novelist/essayist/blogger of great renow...


Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Because I feel an obligation to post something, no matter how inane.....

I have been busy as of late. I have been writing short stories and some other stuff that seems to stay in a form of incompleteness. 

Sending out poems and such has a way of taxing my soul.--I am an impatient man..

I have a couple of rewrites to do, and that in itself makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a broken screwdriver. 

Until I finish, I leave you with this, written by someone else who is long dead....

Men Say They Know Many Things

Men say they know many things;
But lo! they have taken wings, —
The arts and sciences,
And a thousand appliances;
The wind that blows
Is all that any body knows.

Henry David Thoreau

Because I feel an obligation to post something, no matter how inane.....

I have been busy as of late. I have been writing short stories and some other stuff that seems to stay in a form of incompleteness. 

Sending out poems and such has a way of taxing my soul.--I am an impatient man..

I have a couple of rewrites to do, and that in itself makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a broken screwdriver. 

Until I finish, I leave you with this, written by someone else who is long dead....

Men Say They Know Many Things

Men say they know many things;
But lo! they have taken wings, —
The arts and sciences,
And a thousand appliances;
The wind that blows
Is all that any body knows.

Henry David Thoreau

Monday, April 29, 2013

Poetry Reading

First poetry reading
in a couple of decades.
I laughed.
I cried.
I sat in awe.

That night I learned:

Georgia Peaches
are FREAKY!

Kansans punch
two year olds,
in the face,
for crying.

During intermission
while smoking a cigar,
playing cool and aloof (who am I kidding?)
I listened to conversations.
One common thread,
among poets who
stay in the game is:
poetry kills the poet-
but what a way to go.

While waiting for the crapper
I was let in on a little known
secret,
(to men)
about women’s public restroom
etiquette.
Women,
whatever you do,
never,
I mean never,
talk on your cell phone
while on the can.

--You will be busted out
by one of your sisters
with explosive bowl syndrome—

I learned the significance
of PBR in a can, also
that same PBR
on an empty stomach
is money well spent.

Most importantly,
I remembered that words are best shared
with other people. 

Poetry Reading

First poetry reading
in a couple of decades.
I laughed.
I cried.
I sat in awe.

That night I learned:

Georgia Peaches
are FREAKY!

Kansans punch
two year olds,
in the face,
for crying.

During intermission
while smoking a cigar,
playing cool and aloof (who am I kidding?)
I listened to conversations.
One common thread,
among poets who
stay in the game is:
poetry kills the poet-
but what a way to go.

While waiting for the crapper
I was let in on a little known
secret,
(to men)
about women’s public restroom
etiquette.
Women,
whatever you do,
never,
I mean never,
talk on your cell phone
while on the can.

--You will be busted out
by one of your sisters
with explosive bowl syndrome—

I learned the significance
of PBR in a can, also
that same PBR
on an empty stomach
is money well spent.

Most importantly,
I remembered that words are best shared
with other people. 

Sunday, April 28, 2013

Sorry Kids



Slicing through
the dung of it all, 
the sick of it all, 
the sum of it all.
Blunderbuss to the head,
an epiphany,
sudden realization,
clarified awareness
that we know nothing more
than the day before
or through all of history
other than, 
wars remain,
people kill,
poverty remains, 
people starve,
and children suffer
from our muddled traipsing 
through the 
bogs of life....

Sorry Kids



Slicing through
the dung of it all, 
the sick of it all, 
the sum of it all.
Blunderbuss to the head,
an epiphany,
sudden realization,
clarified awareness
that we know nothing more
than the day before
or through all of history
other than, 
wars remain,
people kill,
poverty remains, 
people starve,
and children suffer
from our muddled traipsing 
through the 
bogs of life....

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Be Strong Boston!



As some of you know I spent a good part of my life outside Boston, in fact most all of the 80's and the first couple of years of the 90's. I am not a native to New England, but from the time I was born until my early 20's Massachusetts was the longest I had lived anywhere. I am a transient who has longed for a hometown and consider Billerica, Massachusetts mine. I miss it tremendously and if I ever get to retire Chastity and I are moving there to spend our waning winters ass deep in snow and summers in the White Mountains (still New England). Don't get me wrong, We love Kansas City but c'mon, it's not friggin New England!

All that to say, in light of the attack on Boston, I have had time to reflect. I, like many, have a hard time trying to sort out what kind of person thinks that killing and maiming people is a good thing. What is more distressing to me is all of the assumptions being made as to who did this. It seems the go to enemy is Muslim. Without any proof the media put it out there that it could possibly be a Muslim attack, because as we all know, normal white bread Americans aren't known to blow things up.

Journalism used to be a noble profession, now it's just words with no facts, a propaganda tool creating fear.

I am thinking it was some disgruntled dude from Greenland. Hell, they've been mad at us forever. Just ask any native of Greenland, they hate us for the clubbing of baby seals and global warming. Homeland Security missed that one.

All kidding aside. The type of person who did this was only one type, IDIOT. Idiots have been ruining it for everybody since forever. We need to police the idiots.

If there is anything good that came out of this it would be the common people looking after and caring for each other. It gives me hope for humanity.

Boston, I love you. You are all in my thoughts and prayers... B strong!

Chuck

Be Strong Boston!



As some of you know I spent a good part of my life outside Boston, in fact most all of the 80's and the first couple of years of the 90's. I am not a native to New England, but from the time I was born until my early 20's Massachusetts was the longest I had lived anywhere. I am a transient who has longed for a hometown and consider Billerica, Massachusetts mine. I miss it tremendously and if I ever get to retire Chastity and I are moving there to spend our waning winters ass deep in snow and summers in the White Mountains (still New England). Don't get me wrong, We love Kansas City but c'mon, it's not friggin New England!

All that to say, in light of the attack on Boston, I have had time to reflect. I, like many, have a hard time trying to sort out what kind of person thinks that killing and maiming people is a good thing. What is more distressing to me is all of the assumptions being made as to who did this. It seems the go to enemy is Muslim. Without any proof the media put it out there that it could possibly be a Muslim attack, because as we all know, normal white bread Americans aren't known to blow things up.

Journalism used to be a noble profession, now it's just words with no facts, a propaganda tool creating fear.

I am thinking it was some disgruntled dude from Greenland. Hell, they've been mad at us forever. Just ask any native of Greenland, they hate us for the clubbing of baby seals and global warming. Homeland Security missed that one.

All kidding aside. The type of person who did this was only one type, IDIOT. Idiots have been ruining it for everybody since forever. We need to police the idiots.

If there is anything good that came out of this it would be the common people looking after and caring for each other. It gives me hope for humanity.

Boston, I love you. You are all in my thoughts and prayers... B strong!

Chuck

Thursday, April 04, 2013

Pensive Patriot (or, Revolution is a Young Man’s Game)

Twenty five years ago
I was all for revolution.
My insular world
made numbers
seem larger (one always feels part of the majority in a group of like minds)

Life goes on,
realization that nobody
actually cares (except for themselves and commodities)
a thread of apathy
running through our
fabric of indifference…..or some such thing…..

They (it’s always THEM!)
are counting on
perfunctory populist thought….or lack thereof….

It was THEM!
slowly stealing our country
as we turned a blind eye
to mediocris endeavors.

D.C. looks like WCW (or Adult Swim)
puffing, posturing,
saying nothing,
and doing less…..or nothing more than required…..

Meanwhile….

Our myopic eyes
feed on pseudo-reality
and bastardized journalism,
genetically modified organisms
eating what little
grey mush remaining
in the flickering glow of
PRIMETIME…..

WE NEED REVOLUTION! 

I am for revolution,
but a one man revolution
is considered
nothing more
than terrorism
by THEM,
at best,
a sure quick death,
(or folding Whitey Bulger’s laundry
after a romantic walk in the yard…)

And I’m not sure
I care that much
anymore…

Besides,
revolution is a young man’s game….


Pensive Patriot (or, Revolution is a Young Man’s Game)

Twenty five years ago
I was all for revolution.
My insular world
made numbers
seem larger (one always feels part of the majority in a group of like minds)

Life goes on,
realization that nobody
actually cares (except for themselves and commodities)
a thread of apathy
running through our
fabric of indifference…..or some such thing…..

They (it’s always THEM!)
are counting on
perfunctory populist thought….or lack thereof….

It was THEM!
slowly stealing our country
as we turned a blind eye
to mediocris endeavors.

D.C. looks like WCW (or Adult Swim)
puffing, posturing,
saying nothing,
and doing less…..or nothing more than required…..

Meanwhile….

Our myopic eyes
feed on pseudo-reality
and bastardized journalism,
genetically modified organisms
eating what little
grey mush remaining
in the flickering glow of
PRIMETIME…..

WE NEED REVOLUTION! 

I am for revolution,
but a one man revolution
is considered
nothing more
than terrorism
by THEM,
at best,
a sure quick death,
(or folding Whitey Bulger’s laundry
after a romantic walk in the yard…)

And I’m not sure
I care that much
anymore…

Besides,
revolution is a young man’s game….