grain of sand

by Scott Taylor

i’ve gotten myself
screwed up somehow.
i sit here on the floor in the dark
with music playing,
and pangs of loneliness
conflict with
a vague revulsion
that would prohibit
anyone
from being here
right now.
a little bit of cocaine
and suddenly i am terrified,
needy,
a pilgrim fawn,
i am living a life
unsupported and unsustained,
no one here
but perhaps that is
because
i don’t want them here.
i listen to notes
like raindrops
and wonder why mine
don’t sound like that,
i wish my thoughts
could be beautiful,
i wish i
could be beautiful.
like a dead end
in hell,
i frown in the dark
with a mind and a dick
that just won’t work right,
and still pine
for the women
that i don’t want
anymore.

call to arms

O malcontents who hide in computers and books,
perk up your ears and harken to me,
turn off the TV and unite under a new flag.
we can band together like worker ants,
no uniforms or handbooks will
point the way for us.
O collection of ragtags,
heed the call,
the earth will one day take us all,
your routine is the disease
and you are the cure,
each of us a universe
in defiance of
a collective nothing,
fuck macdonalds and the prom
and the new york yankees,
beauty is found in second-hand stores
and genius in the babblings
of lunatics in chains.
O cellar denizens,
creep out from the sewers
and reclaim what is ours,
everyone’s,
i repeat,
EVERYONE’S,
not just for the politicians,
not just for the bankers,
not just for the inherited wealthy,
not just for the supermodels,
you’ve been told what to like,
you’ve been shown your place,
you’ve been told what to be satisfied with,
now decide
just once
for yourselves.

there’s a death in their eyes

there’s a death in their eyes, deeper and darker than any pit
if ever there was light there
it is gone now forever,
the world has won
and there is no going back.

there is a pain in their smiles
that chills me to the bone,
the heads bob and the mouths work
but they can’t mask the scent
of their fear.

i watch them on television
and on the sidewalks,
in bars and in checkout lines,
all agenda and ambition,
praying for the American Dream
and only finding
the universal nightmare,
confused and angry
but always
coming back for
more.

the spirit wanes
until only survival remains,
it is understandable
and tragic,
childhoods forgotten,
replaced long ago
by some murderous job,
now you accept the lie
because you have to,
it’s too late to object,
might as well go out to dinner
with the wife tonight
and plan this spring’s
vacation.

BIO

Scott Taylor is 49 years old, and hails from Raleigh, North Carolina. He is a writer and a musician, and an avid world traveler.