dancing naked at woodstock*

by Scot Young

on independence day
slow rain hitting
the tin roof
I will sit with you
in hand built adirondacks
on this porch worn
from parades
of dogs and kids
and blast the woodstock album
from vintage speakers

starting with country joe
what’s that spell?
ending with Hendrix picking
star spangled with his teeth
bouncing off the hills
echoing in the valley
like the devil set free
with too much reverberation
the neighbors will hold
a revival
at the end of the drive
look up the hill
through the trees
trying to see
us dancing crazy
naked in the rain

tomorrow
we will post a sign
don’t you fuckers know
how to dance?
today
we raise our hands
sway to
free-dom
free-dom-a
as Ritchie Havens
slaps the acoustic
close our eyes
to the sky
mouth open
catching rain drops
and imagine a
different kind
of place


*first published in Misti's damn fine Instant Pussy magazine

according to the geneva convention

by Scot Young

when I was seven I
would go with you
and uncle ben to the lake
we would sit in barker's
the bar sawdust floor
up the steep hill
next to the stone gas station
you guys would cuss and drink foam
out of frosty mugs
I would spin around on the stool
until you fed me quarters
to play endless games of shuffle board
and the bowling game
with collapsible plastic pens

sometimes I would chase
the minnows around
the tank out front
while waiting
once I remember you let
me drive the speed boat
with the faded red cadillac fins
to another bar on the lake
about two beers away
I remember a wild goat
curved horns
standing on a narrow ledge
above the main channel
watching us bounce through the waves
like a runaway torpedo
water splashing against my face
(isn't it funny what we remember?)
you would have me play
patsy cline I miss you darling B-19
on the jukebox
to get me out of earshot
while you guys patted
the waitress on her backside

it was when you guys slept late
I fished for perch off the dock
it was a game
when they started to nibble
I would pull the bait up
so they wouldn't be caught
and you guys wouldn't
have to cut off their heads
I would come up the long stairs
empty stringer about the time
you guys got up
nope
not biting today
I'd say

at home
mom would ask me
what we did
I told her we had a blast
I only gave her my
name
rank
and serial number

Looking for Kerouac

by Scot Young

at night
weekend poets
with Wal-Mart berets
search for meaning
in faux jazz joints
haikus are lost
to jazz notes swingin
from a computer programmed
Bose system.

joe the poet

by Scot Young

everyone wants to
drink like bukowski
fuck like bukowski
write like bukowski
everyone wants to walk
in bukowski's shadow
taking the same steps
like marcel marceau
trapped inside a glass box

drinking wine by the case
nicotine stained fingers
hunt and peck on a
used underwood
but
listening to mozart
getting a blow job
from last night's hooker
while scratching yr ass
in dirty shorts
doesn't mean
you can ever
write like bukowski

the good news is zimbabwe introduced a 50 million note to buy two loaves of bread

by Scot Young

at six we mute
the nightly news
flat screen flashes
gaza children bloodied
broken dying

sudan women butchered
raped trying to bring
home jugs of water

blood splatters on cnn
a 50 inch collage of death
mounted and angled
just right on the wall

tonight we sprinkle
bean sprouts
on organic romaine
toast a chardonnay as
long range rockets hit
burning 49 civilians
without making a sound

long sad lonesome

by Scot Young

found these three poems
written about dad
how she missed him
loved him
hurt for him
how she wanted to call
him when she felt
that long sad lonesome
i never knew
she wrote poems
never said how she felt
after she left him
but these poems cried
& moaned the long
sad lonesome

when she died
he sat all day
over a beer
felt her go again
hank williams sang
all those sad songs
those lonesome songs
enough beer and hurt
to make him go
home early

one year later
patsy's faded love
played background
at his funeral
it was his poem
his manifesto of
I miss you darling…
his way of saying
goodbye to the long
sad lonesome
his way of saying
just how much…