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

Something to read while I take a break from writing......

http://www.crackthespine.com/p/current-issue.html

Something to read while I take a break from writing......

http://www.crackthespine.com/p/current-issue.html

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...

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

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. 

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....

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

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….

Tiny Rant on Gay Marriage Debate...

What do I think of gay marriage? Absolutely nothing. As a a happily married heterosexual male I do not feel the least bit threatened if men marry men or women marry women. The institution of marriage is not jeopardized within the church, synagogue, or mosque. What business is it of mine or anyone else's for that matter, if some one would like the right to provide for their loved ones when they pass away? Meaning, this is a founding principle of our country, that of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, all of which is extended to those we care about. Most of us, if we are honest and not complete jerks, can agree that nothing would make one so happy on their death bed than to know that the ones you love are taken care of when you die, whomever they may be.

As a narrow minded bigot you have the right to your opinion. That right is guaranteed by our constitution. It also guarantees my right to say you are wrong and a cotton headed ninnymuggins.

As Christians we can defend non issues until we are blue in the face, but the argument remains footle when there are far more pressing issues that we can be addressing. Strain the gnats and swallow a fly. Ack!

I guess I do think something about it.....

First Sight- Umeus and Teeplo (Tony Plocido)

Check this out! Tony Plocido  Umeus feat. Teeplo-First Sight



I really dug the poem before the music. I really dig it with the music.. ENJOY!

First Sight- Umeus and Teeplo (Tony Plocido)

Check this out! Tony Plocido  Umeus feat. Teeplo-First Sight



I really dug the poem before the music. I really dig it with the music.. ENJOY!

Common Sense Drinks Alone

Common Sense

downs another shot

at the end of the bar.

He has been at it

for an hour or so,

and things out there

are starting to get fuzzy.

Now reality

comes in bits and waves,

an optical illusion,

made palatable

by carefully spun lies.

Corporate paltering

selling plasticine promises

of old age sex

and face paralyzing

beauty cream.

Another shot down,

the future looks

Dali-esque,

eyeballs hardening,

funhouse mirror reflects

aberations of the past.

Grabbing the bottle,

four fingers down,

and everything dims,

intentional vivisepulture,

fresh food for the worms.

Common Sense

found puking

behind the dumpster

in the alley,

while the Tea Party looks

for its Mad Hatter,

sitting on their hands

for the revolution to come.

Wiping his mouth,

bellicose bantering

from would be jingoists

fill his ears with

Pavlovian responses

to real world issues

manufactured by the

Fair and Balanced.

and tasting stale vomit,

Common Sense goes home.