Screaming Sundays Coming July 6th at Screaming With Brevity.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Monday, June 16, 2014
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
Monday, June 09, 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
Sunday, June 08, 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,
I will read for food and vodka...and a plane ticket (round trip) cheap cigars and those little babushka dolls,
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© Charles Scott 2014
Screaming Sundays
Do you write?
Do you spend endless hours reading and writing?
Click this link and engage!
Tuesday, June 03, 2014
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.
*I may have to add to this as time goes by*
Sunday, June 01, 2014
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.
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
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 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
From the Depths and Through the Madness
Saturday, May 24, 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
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
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