Tuesday, September 21st, 2010...11:38 am

scott moore | 6 poems

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A RIDE OF WANTS

She 27 had regressed to12
Her face bore the skin and scars beyond her years
I drove without recognition of the mileage

On a long slow ride she shared her grave
In the darkness, in prayer, her darkness

Too much Hep C for me…to draw closer to embrace
Even in delusion I knew to bust clean from her scene
My cock relentless and independent of the other half

Our dilemma
At the later hours of a crack binge
Lust aside…she cried for child and needle arms
Pro choice sang out for her madness….over easy

3am her stop
Across the street from the blood bath bar
Her bags dragging in tow on the empty street
Not distant from hell
To the steps of a section 8

I watched her shadow follow her
Through the door of endings
Would redemption come in sleep?
To guide her towards the light
Or will she die sick and alone on stained sheets
Made the front page again
Her way to get clean

AUTUMNS BREATH

Grizzled with time, knurled and unkempt
Fingers scratch at the ice formed on the window
His breath stronger than the years left in limbs

He stares out the back door
Facing mountains…
Splashed in rainbow color
He names them his own one by one
Each day different

Indian corn grows on the flat
His garden a graveyard
Pets and family fertile the soil
In the valley winds they whisper
Softer come closer

At dusk he stokes the cord wood fire
Under the mantle that holds the faces
Of those who shared memories

He places candy before the faces
Praying for smiling eyes to sing
When morning comes all is eaten
Without footsteps, without cheer, without thanks

His life alone, in wait, on call
Tomorrow he’ll walk the old dirt road
To see autumns breath
Or join the Indian corn

HARD HAT

A strip in the cup to eat or go hungry
We’re all clean for one day
To toil in mud and sweat, to tire with winters chill
Bumped and banged, scuffed and scarred
The hard hat, the beacon of social proof
The silent messenger
The working mans badge of honor

Like deer in rut, who has been, who steps up
Iron workers, brickies, pipe fitters too
Laborers, electricians to throw the switch
Operators to pick it all
Who’s more man among men?
Even she will wrestle all comers

Porta potty libraries to call it out
Cock and snatch, shit and piss on plastic canvases
Their silhouettes in sharpie art
Hide the language of superior prints
Direct and on point, shameless in boundary
Where elections are won and lost

Brick and mortar, pipes and cable
Pitch and elevations all lead to revelation
The latest lessons of economy
Laid upside your head
No spoons fed here, only chop saws

Dewalt, Porter Cable, Makita….Milwaukee too
All amped and charged on ticking clocks
Wait for end….before the start
Five day weeks blur to three, come September
We all holiday

Searing beef and bottle caps in tented parking lots
Thank god for pig skin or buns will hunger
Another week… die working…die laughing
Shovel ready

HELLS RETURN

The surging tides hath cometh
Battered shores cry to dying stars
The moon cares no more
The sun shines darkness

On blacker soil he whispers
I return for true belief
On city streets and dirty alleyways
He smiles

Condoms used twice spell decay
Worn and frail, tattered and bound
Testaments unfound

We wait
His arrival foreshadowed
His sign, a precursor
His hand carves the rotting flesh
Of those already dead
We eat what’s left behind

He laughs…the play, one act to follow
One finger to coerce, to entice
To believe, to swallow, to task in ash
To return to fire
To toll his bell
Hang from the dead tree

STREET ARRANGEMENT

A box, a body, a living corpse
His air dense, dank and moody
A sky greyer than before
Still his music vibrates
A plastic bottle to keep the beat
Silverware creates symphony

Dirty coins fill the crumpled hat
A song away from vanilla extract nips
Sausage stains his salvation pants
His trench coat Tommy gun all day long

Jaundice eyes tear in sunlight
To expose the dirty industrial rivers that line his face
In days past, donor blood the money gig
Now a life not far from leprosy
The flies and vultures salivate

He plays on, god willing morning comes
Hope…a dumpster in an alley, a shelter delousing
To beat winters test, a warm spring rain to wash in
A face to carry a name, the space that feeds him
His lease on the street
To be noticed only when he’s gone

The Theologian and Rehab

It had been for nearly two weeks
I had sat and listened to the sad songs
My sad song
In and out we all bathed in clean dirt
One day to star
The next to scorn

All the stories, self destruction, self hate
Bad funerals on winter days
Probies and court dates not made
Gang affiliations on the verge of collapse
Their revenue streams run dry

On the day he arrived
Stoic and nap sack and note taking
He was a man of god, we knew
He carried himself gently
Almost a shadow
Unafraid, his hands
Softer than persona
He’d walked through poverty
And violence untouched to share bread

What was his deliverance?
His task, to see Satan’s work
Was he a gateway to exorcism?
For us, for himself

If not sent from god
Was it a paper he needed to write?
For a Sunday mass
He a student of humanity
A cardinal’s messenger perhaps

Did Sundays whine spill beyond the alter
The hat passed with a trap door
His robe removed, his collar tarnished
The vices now climaxed, the iron burned in flesh
Life and silence have tolled the bells
To wither in trial or be reborn

Scott Moore about Scott Moore

Born 1960 in Holyoke, Massachusetts. Grew up outside of Boston where I remain today with my wife and two children. Spent 2 years in college before dropping out and running wild. I’ve worked in construction for the last 25 years which I continue to do. I write quite a bit about my experiences with the drugs, alcohol abuse and the fringes of bipolar disorder which has often led me to the underbelly of society and rooms without color.

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