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

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

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

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