Mar 18
J. Scott's picture

Love, Tangential

I'd like to say
I love her
only on the stage
(or perhaps,
more accurately, 
I love her offstage,
for that's where I am)
but still I think
that might be untrue.

See, I think I might
love her more often
than just that but
it's hard to say.

See, she is
so frequently
on stage and I
so frequently off,
so it's practically
our natural state.

It's a sort of
reverential thing
that I feel
towards her,
but somehow
grounded.
And I know
she's no interest
in me beyond that
of professional respect
(at best) and 
uneasy friendship
tempered by her
visible dislike of
my coarser methods 
and general capacity
for fault.

I feel like Icarus
before her shining
glory of sunlight,
and I fall,
oh dear god do I fall.
I am the fool,
the love-struck cynic
Jan 11
J. Scott's picture

Summer

It’s early afternoon,
June.
I am 15.
I am walking
home from school,
in a black dress
and from the
backseat window
of some old-ass
rust-bucket
sedan
when this
real nothing
kind of guy
leans out
the back-seat
passenger side
window
and shouts
“Where’s the funeral?”
I walk faster.

It’s mid-morning
July
I am 15
I am walking
to drivers-ed
and as I cross
the parking lot
of the bank
a truck begins
to follow me.
He catches up.
“How old are you?”
I tell him
And he apologises,
drives away.
I did not
want to know
what he would
have said
to an adult.
I walk faster.

It’s dusk,
August.
I am 15
I am walking
in the park
with my mom.
Two men —
obviously drunk —
walk nearby
and I hear
one say
“Are they playing
Dec 15
J. Scott's picture

The Bus: A Rock Opera

for Karen, with love

Someday
I will laugh
to myself,
look each side
to share
a fond
recollection
of some
middle school joke —
choral director
who called everything
“delicious”
or the time
I climbed
(parkour,
before I knew
it was parkour,
back when
I called it Buffy)
out of a residential
elevator shaft,
the hilarious
choreography of
our eighth grade play
and the
bright blue,
sequinned
dress I wore —
I will look
And I will
realise
that no one
there
knows what
I mean.
 
Dec 14
J. Scott's picture

All We Are is an Exercise in Free Association

Dec 14
J. Scott's picture

Suburban Gothic

We blame our parents
because we can
and because we know
that someday our children
will blame us
and the cycle
will renew
and we will feel
as disconnected from them
as we felt from our parents
and surely they from us
and we will all eat pork chops
and steamed vegetables
in our dining rooms
telling each other lies
and half truths
and trying so hard
not to let the silence in
 
Dec 14
J. Scott's picture

cyclical. all.

Beginning
Grinning
Grinding
Winding
Worming
Wording
Learning
Lying
Losing
Leading
Weeding
Weighing
Wingdings
Ding dong
Ring- ring- ring-
Sing
Being
Bleeding
Reading
Risking
Reaching
Seeking
Seeing
Sensing
Cleansing
Clanging
Changing
Arranging
Ageing
Arguing
Segueing
Severing
Levering
Lamenting
Assenting
Asking
Aiding
Evading
Avenging
Edging
Ending
Stop

 
Dec 14
J. Scott's picture

Directions for the disposal of the author

Toss me out
in the woods,
somewhere I knew
somewhere I walked
among the trees
and heard the rustling
of squirrels in the trees,
chipmunks in the undergrowth,
heard the high-sweet calls
of robins and chickadees,
the distant squawks
of crows and jays;
let the life all around
sing my elegy.
The Jack-in-the-Pulpits
shall recite scripture
at my wake
to gathered crowds
of weeping willows
and maidenhair fern
in mourning veils,
woven of spider-silk.
Leave me there till
the woodbine grows
over my corpse
and the goldsmiths
and earthworms
have thoroughly
tunneled through me
and I am once more
just soil.
 
Dec 14
J. Scott's picture

In Which the Author is Pretentious in Every Manner They Can Conceive

Dec 14
J. Scott's picture

En Route or an Ode to Boskone

Driving down
the highway
in Massachusetts
(I think, but we
could still be
in New Hampshire)
seat warmers on
NPR playing
over the car stereo,
a cup of
French Vanilla Coffee
pressed between
my denim knees,
radiating heat

Outside, headlights
catch on
dim and dingy
roadside snow piles
ricocheting off
telephone wires
and the mirrors
of cars ahead of us

At my feet
bags of chips
crunch and crinkle
like the
hard, packed
snow beyond
my window

The sky is
winter dark
a deep
palpable
dark
like black velvet
interspersed
with glimmering
crystalline stars

The air
within
is dense,
drowsy
time freezes
as if from the cold
and we are driving
forever toward
the warmth
of a bed
and a
new day

 
Dec 14
J. Scott's picture

All Men Are Cremated Equal

Will you bleed
gold and silver
and green
when you die?
Will your last breath
smell of stocks
or holding
or your third house?
Will your casket
be all the more
beautiful
with it’s fine wood
it’s rich lining
in some sweet spot
on some overlooking hill
six feet deep
in the same earth
as the rest of us?
Come a little closer
and find out.
 

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