poem by scot young

bob drove a mach 1 to the levy by Scot Young

bob didn’t know
facebook or believe
in poets
but thought in terms
of clevelands and windsors
of fastback mustangs
of busted knuckles &
greasy coveralls
he never got thoughts
and prayers posted
online but before
he died
wild bill brought
him a carton of
lucky strikes
that lasted him
to the finish line

plath poetry project by Scot Young

 

i etched tally marks
on yr tombstone
you strung miniature
skulls on jute twine
across my crib
an early lesson
a tiny abacus where
i leaned italian math
by subtraction

you taught me
i was only as good
as my last scribble
my last etching
as i take my next
transfusion
with archival
ink
i cover
the holes
in the wall
with
dreams
of the
dead

casting shadows by scot young

jill may

followed the wrong dream
traded family albums for cardboard
and crack pipes
alcatraz fog
slips in steals shadows
surrounds her

turning tricks
on jones street
scoring the next fix
of crack
or smack

You know I’m gonna clean up soon
she grinned

huddled
barefoot
in doorways
wrapped in mist–ragged blankets
she slides the needle
in her neck
the best place to relieve
the cold shiver
the crack hunger
the throwing up
of dumpster food

dealers see her
talking to cops
debts unpaid
trying to clean up

yesterday
they found her
doused with gas
dead
clutching
a burnt cross

casting a shadow
on a black wall

–2007

https://www.sfgate.com/crime/article/Woman-who-burned-victim-alive-convicted-of-murder-4937262.php

Ray by Scot Young

Ray got outta prison in 82
pulled up on the job site in a caddy
trunk full of sansabelts,
banlons and a dozen leather jackets
big bob said
fuck ray, we don’t wear that shit
got any flannel shirts & jeans

ray

narrowed his eyes

like eastwood in hang’em high

remembering the last thing

his daddy said right before he hit the ground

best part of you ran down

your moma’s leg

johnny cash blues by scot young

i had a dream last night
that johnny cash and me
were kids together
before the black clothes
folsom prison blues
i walk the line
& martin guitars
we wore low top converse
and caught crawdads
out of the creek with paper clips
string and bacon
we smoked viceroys by the tracks
ya hear that train a comin
he whispered
i hung my head
and cried cause
the good dreams
never last long
enough

#realityshow by scot young

trump is president
bukowski’s bluebirds hang them
selves with rubber ropes