Alan P. Scott - Verses

untitled - untitled reprise - untitled iii

Can you,
through whatever mode you like
See through the outer shell
Into the man below?

With life becoming scarcer in quality
and ever more abundant in quantity,
Is it any wonder that
the unordinary is cherished
like a worn-out newspaper?

Can you question it?

I saw an old man the other day,
Drinking from a paper bag.
Drinking water,
and there was no bottle inside the bag.
I said,
"How do you do it, old timer?"
and he replied
"Go to hell, my son. Such things are
not for you to know."

Whereupon I kicked him in the belly,
And took from him a soggy paper bag.

I dreamed
that one day, in the morning,
All the superhighways
and cloverleaves
Tied themselves up in huge knots
And the only way to unravel them
Was the Alexandrian.
So we all went back to riding bicycles
and horses
on summerlanes and winterpaths
Without worrying
Or hurrying
At all.

"Sing us a song; you're the Piano Man!"
With Steinway Grand gams
And an 88-tooth denture
(But some of the teeth aren't
Pepsodent White,
due to bad fluoridation
in his hometown.
Or something.)

I can't understand it.
But then, neither can you,
And it was your idea.

Can you hear me, God?

When the good Lord stubs his toe,
Does He say, "Man-damn!"?

If I could pound on the keyboard
And make it come out words
I would.

If the good Lord hadn't meant for us to fly,
He wouldn't have given us stewardesses.

The second person singular
A singular person indeed
is implicit in all my works,
and if it weren't,
I probably wouldn't care about them anyway.

God, I'm so creative!
Heaven spare us from such a thought.
Creativity is unconscious, right?

It occurs to me
that some might find it offensive
That a high-school kid
uses words
that (practically) everyone
at one time or another
had used.
They're the ones I want to use,
and if I didn't think they were "right"
or "proper" they wouldn't be there.
So there.

Back to the salt mines.
Creativity is about as unconscious as a
Dressmaker sewing a dress without
Even looking at it. This
foolish "stream of consciousness" stuff is crap.

D'ja notice something?
Look at the first letters
of the lines of that last part.
That's what I mean about "creativity."
Sure it comes from inside you,
But you've got to control it.
You can't let everything come out
Without even looking it over.
It comes out shit,
and there's too much of that in the world already.

"A poet and don't know it."
Isn't half as bad as not being a poet
And still not knowing it.

So far, although I've used the others
I've avoided the big one
the one we never ever ever say
(at least, not often)
so here it is:


I hope it was as good for me
as it was for you.
Or something.

You don't know, or I wouldn't be telling you.

I mean...
Well, why didn't you say so?

How should I know?

So there!
Oh yeah?
And your muddah, too!
You take that back!
Will not!
Will too!
Will not!
Will too--

Thus beginneth WWIII.

If we all lived together in peace and harmony
And there were no more wars
Or poverty
Or biting insects
Or crime
Or any other of that nasty icky stuff
We call everyday life
And the lion laid down with the lamb
We'd all be bored to tears.

Have you ever thought
(no, not lately)
What the traditional Heaven would really be like?
With that silly harp
(half of you tone-deaf anyway)
and those gauzy wings
(about as aerodynamic as a toadstool)
and a halo
probably powered by Eveready
And all those clouds?

Personally, I'd rather be in Hell.
At least it's warm.

The sunlight and convection
Make a flickering candle on the wall
Next to the typewriter.
Betcha it won't be here tonight.

D'ja ever stop to think that road maps
Look like anatomical drawings?
You did?
Oh, well.

If you could bring lasting peace to the entire world
Just by pushing a button
Would you push it?
What if I told you that there is (are) a man (men)
Who could do that,
And don't?

And God said, "Let there be light!"
and there was light.
And God said, "Let there be man!"
and darkness fell upon the face of the earth.

All of us are emotional vampires,
feeding on the dead husks of feelings,
Sucking the last yellow juices out of the
Living corpses
of love, hate, fear, anger.

What do you think soaps are all about?

Man said to God, "Why?"
God said to Man, "Who the hell cares?"

So there,
So long,
Good night.

The "untitled" cycle received 1st prize for poetry in Marshall University's Academic Festival on April 4, 1981.

©1980, 2007 Alan P. Scott. All rights reserved.

Last updated January 28, 2007

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