Archive for the Dan Provost Category

Dan Provost

Posted in Dan Provost with tags on June 13, 2022 by Scot



Tough Time “Getting It”

It’s not enough for
white people
to read Invisible Man
or Black Like Me…

And say they understand–

And sympathize



The fear of a man who lives
in a world not compatible for him…

Cannot obtain a diagnosis
of where he belongs without
straying from the inevitable.

He stands in the middle of
the road—looking for answers
from disinterested commuters, who are funneled
through the process of a daily grind.

Avoiding cars, who swerve not to kill, yelling
curse words at the guy who straddles the
double lines.

He is not accustomed to table
talk philosophy.

Just stands
in everyone’s way.
Knowing something is not right.

With him, them—



Doubles—How I Hated You

August 1st, the last taste
of summer
before the dreaded

Drink up that beer, see
that beautiful girl sitting
at the end of the bar…

She’s the last female you will be
looking at for a while.

Sleep in that last Sunday, recover,
wake up late afternoon…Pack
your shit—

Socks, shorts, t-shirts, flip-flops.

Anything that will help you survive
the down time…

Because it’s here.

Two a day practice.
90-degree heat.

Stepping onto the turf, Monday
at 8:30 AM—the morning dew
blends in with sweat that pours
into your eyes.

Black helmets facilitate the
process of body drench…

Into our girdle pads—
through the football pants, pocketed
with thigh and knee pads, protectors that rub against
raw skin.

Stretching, up-downs…

Don’t know?
Don’t ask…

Report to position coach, drive the sled
for miles and

Right shoulder…
Left shoulder…

Oklahoma Drill.
Don’t know?

Picture four bodies in full
collision mode—with one
guy behind the offensive line
and a linebacker behind the devils across
from you.

The running back needs to score…
Leverage wins this game.
Get underneath him.
Drive his ass off the line of scrimmage.

Blood, dirt…no tears—
Just physical battle.

Psychological thrill if you win,
or embarrassing pain for the loser.

Team period, learn the new offense
bit by bit.

Ignore the frowned eyebrows from
coaches who control if you start
or ride the pine…

10:50 AM—beautiful sprints…
Your mouth is pure cotton.

Whistle, run…stop, breath…
Sprint again.

11:10 first session over, walk up the
hill to the stink of the locker room…
Talk to your line buddies—dream of
cocktails and pretty woman.

Collapse, eat, then nap in a dorm
trying to cool with a useless fan…

Three o clock?
Coming soon enough.

Repeat the process…

After Listening to Van Jones by Dan Provost

Posted in Dan Provost with tags on June 8, 2020 by Scot

I am not kind
to anyone

Too many bodies
being stepped over
or necks being
knelt on…

I am a white boy with
a scowl in my

and privilege I want
to vomit…

Seen too much shit to
believe in peace and harmony

all on TV, of course—
never had to look in
the mirror and worry
what time I’ll be shot

Or be cuffed and thrown
in back of Johnny Law’s cruiser

Disaster is not around the
corner…It’s here now…

My friends are angry…
The bullshit continues…

There will not be
a next time…

This time?

Two Poems by Dan Provost

Posted in Dan Provost with tags on August 19, 2019 by Scot
  1. When Sean the Hitman Developed a Conscious

Clear shot of conscious for the first time in his
life, Shawn left the gun lying on the ground

lacking the hatred to shoot Maize’s
little boy.

Or was it wisdom that led him away
From this existing turmoil, beleaguered
and beaten down can be so tiresome.

Shawn has shot a few; some with anger in
his heart, others for pay from some gangster
or gutless husband who wanted rich wifey out
of the way.

This time, he looked into the reflection on the lake–seeing the
silhouette of a man holding a shotgun, ready to tear a hole
into a crop of blond hair.

A nephew?
Maybe a son he never knew about?

He just could not stand the voices in his head—the justification of
soulless rendezvous with the dregs of mankind.

The man was tired of killing.
Tired of living.
Sometimes just tired of being.

Picking up his satchel, he packs up
His warm clothes and goes,

So far away from hugging mother and child.
No, he can never be part of that.




Playing Out the String

Winter sun-2:00 P.M.
is death, aging,
Looking up through
arduous eyes, trying to
feed out words of

Surely, we have slowed
down, as we suck on that
same joint…trying to fathom
the human condition in
some renaissance, reflective

Obsessing on new
portals to climb through.

Attempting to relive
the moment when it
was so cool to be disillusioned.

But the shine

And the vision

Then the parade ended
in a departure of broken bones…


Just another dismal failure…

Just another fade…of ideals.

Stuck within a millisecond…

Of time…

Self-Infliction by Dan Provost

Posted in Dan Provost with tags on December 16, 2009 by Scot

Events you thought inconsequential…
Lightly touching my hip in the
Used book store or rubbing the
Small of back at the amusement park…
Probably whisked through your oblivion,
Meant the world to me…
But that was our walk through events for all time…
Never to happen again.
The smallest gestures, you threw away–while the
Receiver of the cherished gifts…
Suffered in the early morning hours
When cries are heard by one…
I have never spent more conscious days in my life when I was with you…
Every movement of step a beautiful journey…
A surprise—you not knowing;
                     I quietly exhilarated…
At every glance or stare…
Disregarded?  Probably, in your reality of real world milieu…
They were bibles to me…to take out, studied and worshipped
Then put away until another 4 AM epiphany starts me pacing in
My silent gallows…
Only the beating of the heart, or the sobbing of the one crow
Who sits alone on top of the birdbath…
Are heard while the world is still asleep….
My grief is silent…the soul is saddened.
I may never be home.

World Widows by Dan Provost

Posted in Dan Provost on August 20, 2009 by Scot

She dreamt of armies,
Men who fought and bled…

Different names
Different guises

All tired from strife
throughout the centuries of victories and defeats

Body counts told to grieving widows
Whose lovers were sold a bill of goods
by entrapped loyalty their men
purged so ravenously into their soul.

The women cried, present and past
Roman widows
English widows
American widows…

World widows.

We were born to suffer, not wander
as the famous song once said…

drifting into slumber…she knows
that one will not come home…