Poems by Scott Taylor

when the kids turned black

we were in middle school
and the tournament was on
and at the sunday school retreat
the mob was ready to pounce
on brian zimmer
he was the sacrificial lamb
the scapegoat
and we should have held torches
as we gathered round
as nicole strode forward
and punched him in the nose
to the delight
of the onlookers
they sent him home
after that
and the mob dispersed
to find other
distractions
i hope
he had more strength
than i have
to be able to
forget all that.

let it be

let insanity run its course
let wells dry
and thoughts go awry
embrace the natural rivers
of intention
let the sound of silence
become intimidating
beyond belief
run to your pen
write it in blood
you got to lay down
what come out
ya got to got to got to
listen not to
editors,
speaketh not
with fashion mongrels
consort not
with the sober
or those who've found faith
charles b had
cats and smoke
i have
darkness and ennui
and this curious
and annoying penchant
for developing
infantile rhymes
after the day has
once again
closed down.