Archive for the Uncategorized Category

Poem for Lester Madden by John Dorsey

Posted in John Dorsey, Uncategorized with tags on August 13, 2020 by Scot


even the dead can see the lights from the highway
i imagine you were an olympic swimmer

that you once kissed a girl from zelienople
on a first date at baldinger’s
who had sugar sweet lips

you were a lucky guy
that’s further
than i’ve ever gotten.

Two Poems by Shawn Pavey

Posted in Shawn Pavey, Uncategorized on August 12, 2020 by Scot

Mo(u)rning Ghazal
Heavy rains for the better part of twenty four hours.
The river rises, water overflowing its borders.

Thunder fills everyone standing with dread, but lightning
cracks the air, opens us to all the sky’s murderous powers.

Beside a propane tank behind my studio, at the edge
of an overgrown gravel drive, sway black-eyed Susans and lacy wildflowers.

Strong black coffee punctuates overcast mornings.
Cigarettes are good, too, but I don’t smoke those anymore.

Last week, chatted with an old and dear friend who’s writing a book
on “The History of Reading” that I want to devour.

He told me it’s cancer. He told me the executor of his will
will send me his lifetime’s book collection of analysis and verse.

I do not want my friend to die and neither do I want to end.
I am exhausted from saying goodbye, yet here we are.

Ghazal of Regret
Memories of childhood seem to come in various hues of green: Lawn in late
spring, undersides of leaves in shade of that old maple near an opened gate.

Which face do we wear now to the world, under masks, under pandemic,
under virus, under orders, under undermined orders, under fear, under greatness?

Modern times, such modern times these are. All of us instantly connected
by phones in our pockets, by watches, by tablets so devoutly followed and liked, never sated.

Uneasy to predict, tomorrow. Disease of information lacking wisdom and context.
We lock windows. Lock cars. Lock doors and cell phones and minds and gates.

To be new again. To be open, again. To be fair and just and kind and receptive.
To be children. To be smiling. To be singing. To be play and playing. Free. Too late.

ABOVE by Wolf Kevin Martin

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on August 11, 2020 by Scot


spit to see the blood in it
bathtubs of lukewarm water
all sins require a tax universally
accepts credit cards or weeping
days of not enough living in the tail of a comet
doing everything to not destroy what was left
the stars are my ladies that know better
than to lie awake thinking of me

dream out loud
not fuck around
say too much
tempt fate
the wrong way

weighs down a soul
regurgitating middle
class upbringing
will be brought back
from the dead
soon In fashion again

wear your blood
across my ghost
will try to kiss
you again later

Gone Fishing by Cord Moreski

Posted in Cord Moreski, Uncategorized with tags on August 10, 2020 by Scot

for Charles Joseph

I finally get hold
of Charles on the phone
to see what he’s been up to.
“Gone fishing,” he tells me.

I mention some new poems
I wrote down this morning
he talks about some fluke he caught
in the bay behind his apartment.

“Any keepers?” I ask.
“Not a chance in hell!”
I go back to my writing
from earlier today and agree.

more and more everyday by Scot Young

Posted in Scot Young, Uncategorized with tags on August 9, 2020 by Scot

my mother died in 93
after too many years
of tareytons and
my father a year later
they found him in the shower
after a couple days

he hit his head
water turned cold
still running
i never asked
if he was drunk
if it was his heart or
he just slipped
facts didn’t matter
it was a slow motion suicide
that took 73 years
one can at a time

they divorced in 1975
went their separate ways
but  their hearts never did
they never talked about
each other after that
but you saw them pause
that light flash in their eyes
if you mentioned the other
if only for a second

faded love by patsy cline
i miss you darlin
more and more everyday
played at his funeral

it was his song
B3 on a dusty
jukebox at the hangout bar
just off raytown road
where he hung his hat

halogen glow by Rob Dyer

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on August 8, 2020 by Scot

my teeth hurt
tearing at surfaces
unknown to me
every gritty slide feels
like a thought getting away
or maybe not
it could be the capture
of a childish tear
desperate to leave

I like tough people
scarred and torn preferably
with dripping sarcasm
in their eyes
bloodied from a Life
on the town
and if they can’t hold
a thought for too long
that’s nice too
I can learn
that way

fishing is important
the silence scares me
like when I used to
walk home
alone late at night
even though
I was tough as nails
when Arthur and I traded punches
and smashed a car window for kicks

now I take the middle of the road
under the halogen glow
as if boogie men
are scared of light

George Perry Floyd by Scot Young

Posted in Uncategorized on June 3, 2020 by Scot

george perry floyd
with a cop’s knee
on his neck
another on his back
he begged
to breathe
cried out
for his deceased mama
as the world watched
most of us at the time
too stunned to cry

400 years of asphyiation
and four bad cops
george perry floyd
on that minnesota asphalt
our eyes watched
as he quit moving
the knee remained
after his last breath
as an exclamation point

but it isn’t just
the four
cops that are guilty
we can spread that out
from sea to shining sea
the six oclock news
just showed a clip of
his six year old daughter
sitting on his best friend’s
arms outstretched saying
my daddy changed the world
my daddy changed the world

maybe this time
maybe this time
we shall overcome

Four Poems by Jack Henry

Posted in Jack Henry, Uncategorized with tags on August 26, 2019 by Scot

setting free
when my ex died unexpectedly
alone in an apartment she
could not afford;
in a city where conformity
ruled & no one dare stray
from the dotted line;
in a state of financial ruin
brought on by a cancer she
blamed on me;
i thought that day, that moment
i would return to sanity;

but i was wrong –

her ghost haunts me,
& i know i should let it
go, but this ghost is real;

she follows me around,
lets me know she is watching;
in all honest i have grown
used to it –

her ashes sit on a shelf of
tchotchkes, at the top
next to smaller cedar boxes
of dead dogs;

her box is colorful, secured by
a small diary lock, the kind
you could crush with your

she left no instructions on a proper
burial and my daughter didn’t know
what to do, so she sits on a top shelf;

watching –

it’s cold
at the top of Mount Baldy;
a few people gather
in clusters of twos and threes;
i came with my ghost
and a backpack holding
a gray paper box
filled with ashes;

i started at 4am,
made good time,
hit the summit in 5 hours,
a record, for me;

at the far edge of the rounded
peak i reach into
my backpack and pull out
the gray paper box,
set it down on behind a large
stone, used as a wind break;

the sun slowly arches across
a bright, blue sky; it is a perfect
day; i remove the lid, pull out
a bag of gray ash;
it is heavy, nearly three pounds,
all that remains;

i kept tablespoon of ash, put it in
a beautiful crystal jar, placed it back on
the shelf, for my daughter, for the
day she wants to remember;

but on the mountain i let it fly,
emptied the bag into the wind,
a temporary cloud rising and
falling on the breath of god;

a ranger approached, but i caught
him in the corner of my eye,
i had a permit, she would have liked
that, being prepared for a change –




the ringing
in my
never leaves
just as
the icy hand
my past
never lets
go of
throat –

long forgotten,
to the shores
of my solitude,
my skin,
fresh wounds
from which
to draw –

i do
not recognize
who this
person was
nor the
on stolen
paper &
the backs
of bar top
napkins –

ten years gone
not a word
to sell or
i lay
down my
i know
from where i
come –

nor where i
go –



she sits
on a park
tears stream
from her
she dabs
them away
with a worn
given to her
years ago
by a man
barely knew

every night
in the kitchen sink
she washes the
let’s it dry
on the countertop
every morning
she folds the
places it in
her pocketbook

some days she
wanders out
onto the streets
and sidewalks
of los angeles
stares up at the
wanders out
past the old
and shuttered
retail stores
past the
angry young men
concrete walls, the
ones littered
with flyers and
poster board
eventually she
finds herself
on a park bench
in Pershing Square
the city change

she knows
no one
other than
and pharmacists
her neighbors
speak in a
she does not
her children
have forgotten

some days
she cries
pulls the
from her
dabs at her
dries her

that day
a man walks up
nearly as old
as she
offers her a
one very like
the one hidden
in her pocketbook
he is gray and
riddled with age

she smiles
as he sits next to her




memory fails
when i try to remember
our first embrace –
a strange two weeks
rolling across a jungle –

you filled gray folds
of my mottled brain
with something more
than a quick hello, goodbye,
you were okay –

little things cling to a here and now tap dance –
cheap perfume –
a femme fatales eyelashes –
an innocent touch –
tears formed from a dream you could not share –

and when you left,
when you finally left,
a note remains –
a sort of explanation,
a sort of apology,
but you need not worry –

everyone leaves

eventually –

Demon by Gale Acuff

Posted in Gale Acuff, Uncategorized with tags on January 21, 2019 by Scot

Miss Hooker threw me out of Sunday School
for singing I guess Jesus loves me when
Yes, Jesus loves me are the correct words
and then let me back in near the end when
it was time to say the Lord’s Prayer and
she even made me lead the class in it
and was looking and listening as she
stood beside me to make sure I didn’t
crucify the prayer as well, that’s what
she said I did to “Jesus Loves Me,” too.
And she kept me after school, she set
free everybody but me and then had
me stand in front of her desk as she asked
Do you have a demon in you, Gale, that
makes you sin like you do in Sunday School
–in Sunday School!–because that’s a double
-sin that one day God will get you for and
when you go to hell Satan will get you
all over again even though you did
exactly what he hoped you would do? What
could I say? I’m sorry, Miss Hooker, and
I was just having a little fun, but
she answered with Some fun it will be when
your classmates burn in Hellfire because you
led them into sin, so we’d better pray
about this, young man, so we got down on
our knees, I’m only 10 to Miss Hooker’s
25 so I have less space to fall
and she talked to God with her eyes closed and
head bowed and her hands set like praying hands
but all I really remember was Lord,
help me to teach Gale the error of his ways,
Amen, because I had one eye opened
to watch her there, kneeling helplessly but
thinking herself mighty strong, like the meek
who inherit the earth, I guess, and when
she opened her eyes I closed my opened
one and she said, You may look now, Gale,
so we got to our feet and I’m damned if
I didn’t seem taller or at least she
was shorter. That’s how I know what love is,
or at least one kind, the kind that wants to
make babies even if you don’t know how,
which I don’t, but I think that it starts with
getting married, which we will, when I’m old
enough and she’s enough still young. I tried
to tell her so but instead I started to
cry. Which is good practice for when I’m grown.


They say by Matt Galletta

Posted in Matt Galletta, Uncategorized with tags on January 21, 2019 by Scot

They say
talent skips a generation.

I suspect sometimes
it passes over
entire families.