Frank Reardon....My next book purchase

My next book purchase.

 Frank Reardon



The Open Road of Your Bookcase

When a man has nothing but his
name and a mouthful of words, no
money just personal hate and inner
famine, when the road opens up in
front of his old beat up shoes, the
possibilities become limitless. The
cynics and elitists vanish. Those
doubt soaked ladies become tiny
incidents. The memories decide not
to pan out and the jobs could be
anything: fisherman, lumberjack,
miner, store clerk, or the priest
of a lonely heart.

The road is experience and truth.
It's the place of one thousand ghosts.
It becomes the palace of your open
mast (the one you simplify with true
grit and courage.) When a man has
simple things like notebooks, pens,
selected music, and powerful works
from the typewriter, he can see people
stripped to the bone. He can see a
man's blood pump on the outside. He
can tell what comfort really does for
the people of the arm chair relax. Art
never had a bigger challenge than that
of true passion taken by feet that truly
need to see the earth.

To see and to meet, to plunge the
knife in deeply, to taste and to seek.
I shall gain this knowledge by rafting
across the great colony of despair and
seeing the real suffering. The real deal
all over, not to look within the same
walls of one, two, or three towns, I shall
listen to similar winds across the plains
of my own sorrows and gain the slick
confidence that most will not even
attempt to try. I'm not better or worse,
but I seek formal gain and a card
player’s smile. When I leave your
town I will open my brain and suck in
your truths, and before I leave upon this
road again, I shall leave myself upon
the shelves of your bookcase.

Frank Reardon....My next book purchase

My next book purchase.

 Frank Reardon



The Open Road of Your Bookcase

When a man has nothing but his
name and a mouthful of words, no
money just personal hate and inner
famine, when the road opens up in
front of his old beat up shoes, the
possibilities become limitless. The
cynics and elitists vanish. Those
doubt soaked ladies become tiny
incidents. The memories decide not
to pan out and the jobs could be
anything: fisherman, lumberjack,
miner, store clerk, or the priest
of a lonely heart.

The road is experience and truth.
It's the place of one thousand ghosts.
It becomes the palace of your open
mast (the one you simplify with true
grit and courage.) When a man has
simple things like notebooks, pens,
selected music, and powerful works
from the typewriter, he can see people
stripped to the bone. He can see a
man's blood pump on the outside. He
can tell what comfort really does for
the people of the arm chair relax. Art
never had a bigger challenge than that
of true passion taken by feet that truly
need to see the earth.

To see and to meet, to plunge the
knife in deeply, to taste and to seek.
I shall gain this knowledge by rafting
across the great colony of despair and
seeing the real suffering. The real deal
all over, not to look within the same
walls of one, two, or three towns, I shall
listen to similar winds across the plains
of my own sorrows and gain the slick
confidence that most will not even
attempt to try. I'm not better or worse,
but I seek formal gain and a card
player’s smile. When I leave your
town I will open my brain and suck in
your truths, and before I leave upon this
road again, I shall leave myself upon
the shelves of your bookcase.

Coming Soon

I read. I read a lot. It is not uncommon for me to have a few books in various stages of reading, along with reading magazines, journals and literary magazines (especially online rags). What I am about to say is in no way a form of bragging, however, as a result of all my reading I come across a lot of really good authors and poets that most have never read.

I also think. I think a lot. Okay, I daydream. I have hours during any given day to think about a good many things. Story ideas. Poems. My bank account. So, while thinking the other day I had the idea to start something that would highlight some of the writers I have been reading as of late. Mind you, there is a bunch of crap out there, but there is also really good stuff out there that deserves to be read by people other than writers. What I came up with is quite possibly the most brilliant idea I have ever come up with. Of course I don't have many good ideas, so this is as good as it gets...

I have added an installment to my blog titled: Five Questions With: (insert writer here)

Each piece will highlight a writer or poet who I am reading and is willing to answer questions from an unknown writer. (that would be me)

I am hoping to have the first installment within the next few weeks. Keep checking in. I promise that you will not be disappointed when it finally arrives.

© Charles Scott 2014

Coming Soon

I read. I read a lot. It is not uncommon for me to have a few books in various stages of reading, along with reading magazines, journals and literary magazines (especially online rags). What I am about to say is in no way a form of bragging, however, as a result of all my reading I come across a lot of really good authors and poets that most have never read.

I also think. I think a lot. Okay, I daydream. I have hours during any given day to think about a good many things. Story ideas. Poems. My bank account. So, while thinking the other day I had the idea to start something that would highlight some of the writers I have been reading as of late. Mind you, there is a bunch of crap out there, but there is also really good stuff out there that deserves to be read by people other than writers. What I came up with is quite possibly the most brilliant idea I have ever come up with. Of course I don't have many good ideas, so this is as good as it gets...

I have added an installment to my blog titled: Five Questions With: (insert writer here)

Each piece will highlight a writer or poet who I am reading and is willing to answer questions from an unknown writer. (that would be me)

I am hoping to have the first installment within the next few weeks. Keep checking in. I promise that you will not be disappointed when it finally arrives.

© Charles Scott 2014

Stuff I read while waiting to write...

 Check out Matthew J. Hall's site:  http://www.screamingwithbrevity.com


I long for the day when I can eat cheese and drink whiskey without interruption.

Stuff I read while waiting to write...

 Check out Matthew J. Hall's site:  http://www.screamingwithbrevity.com


I long for the day when I can eat cheese and drink whiskey without interruption.

Books I forgot about..

Something to read........© Charles Scott 2013

Books I forgot about..

Something to read........© Charles Scott 2013

Clubbing 1988

 A writing exercise that keeps me writing daily. Not a lot of words per day, but word count does not matter so much in this. Normally it involves a couple of paragraphs, maybe a sentence or two, or some obscure, archaic word along with definition written down to make me feel literary and ease my addiction to the act of writing. Some days I feel like a weaning puppy. The following is an addition to something I posted a few days ago. I have no idea which way this is going. Maybe Robert will score. Maybe Jenny will mace Robert and kick him in the gut as he claws at his burning eyes. Maybe they will date, get married and raise a child who later becomes a serial killer, or televangelist. One thing remains, it is still just an exercise.

Clubbing 1988

The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--

All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!

Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.

Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”

“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”

Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.

“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”

Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.

Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”

“Jenny.”Slight editing (slight is an understatement) a few more words and still no idea where this is going.

Clubbing 1988

The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--

All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!

Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.

Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”

“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”

Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.

“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”

Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.

Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”

“Jenny.”

As all of this is going on one of the bartenders slices his hand while cutting a lime; a hippie wearing something other than black, sticking out like a hippie in a sea of goths, sits in a corner attempting to light a joint with a spent Bic lighter; I am puking in the piss stained bathroom. The assumption from everyone close to me is that I am drunk. In fact, I am not drunk, but suffering from food poisoning contracted from a rancid gyro eaten a few hours prior.




© Charles Scott 2013

Clubbing 1988

 A writing exercise that keeps me writing daily. Not a lot of words per day, but word count does not matter so much in this. Normally it involves a couple of paragraphs, maybe a sentence or two, or some obscure, archaic word along with definition written down to make me feel literary and ease my addiction to the act of writing. Some days I feel like a weaning puppy. The following is an addition to something I posted a few days ago. I have no idea which way this is going. Maybe Robert will score. Maybe Jenny will mace Robert and kick him in the gut as he claws at his burning eyes. Maybe they will date, get married and raise a child who later becomes a serial killer, or televangelist. One thing remains, it is still just an exercise.

Clubbing 1988

The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--

All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!

Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.

Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”

“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”

Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.

“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”

Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.

Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”

“Jenny.”Slight editing (slight is an understatement) a few more words and still no idea where this is going.

Clubbing 1988

The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--

All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!

Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.

Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”

“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”

Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.

“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”

Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.

Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”

“Jenny.”

As all of this is going on one of the bartenders slices his hand while cutting a lime; a hippie wearing something other than black, sticking out like a hippie in a sea of goths, sits in a corner attempting to light a joint with a spent Bic lighter; I am puking in the piss stained bathroom. The assumption from everyone close to me is that I am drunk. In fact, I am not drunk, but suffering from food poisoning contracted from a rancid gyro eaten a few hours prior.




© Charles Scott 2013

To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.

JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975

Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/s/steinbeck_john.html#tu0Jbd6ZZPBLqcYt.99

 "To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done."

JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975

To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.

JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975

Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/s/steinbeck_john.html#tu0Jbd6ZZPBLqcYt.99

To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.

JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975

Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/s/steinbeck_john.html#tu0Jbd6ZZPBLqcYt.99

 "To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done."

JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975

To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.

JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975

Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/s/steinbeck_john.html#tu0Jbd6ZZPBLqcYt.99

Words paint beautiful pictures. One does not need to be verbose or a sesquipedalian to paint a mental picture. Sometimes, when being wordy one comes off as a written blatherskite. Think Hemingway on Faulkner, “Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?”. With that, I share quite possibly the best lyric ever written. It is from the song, Jumping Jack Flash by the Rolling Stones, "I was raised by a toothless, bearded hag."

See, best lyric ever that paints a beautiful picture. The picture that comes to my mind's eye is that of Witchy Poo from HR Pufnstuf. Sure, she does not have a beard, but she is a hag. Pretty sure she is toothless too.

© Chuck Scott 2013 except for the picture. that's   © Sid and Marty Krofft

Words paint beautiful pictures. One does not need to be verbose or a sesquipedalian to paint a mental picture. Sometimes, when being wordy one comes off as a written blatherskite. Think Hemingway on Faulkner, “Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?”. With that, I share quite possibly the best lyric ever written. It is from the song, Jumping Jack Flash by the Rolling Stones, "I was raised by a toothless, bearded hag."

See, best lyric ever that paints a beautiful picture. The picture that comes to my mind's eye is that of Witchy Poo from HR Pufnstuf. Sure, she does not have a beard, but she is a hag. Pretty sure she is toothless too.

© Chuck Scott 2013 except for the picture. that's   © Sid and Marty Krofft

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. 

Charles Bukowski

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. 

Charles Bukowski

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. 

Charles Bukowski

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. 

Charles Bukowski

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