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Thursday, January 28, 2016

Featuring Scott Wozniak

The Way the Universe Intended

I’ve lived
under the pretence
I’d die young
and leave
a good looking

With age extended
and opportunity
lost, I now see
how dull
that sounds.

My new goal
is to leave
the most gnarled,
no organ usable,
beat up
cemetery gates
will ever see.

I want morticians
to have nightmares
from the sight
of my remains,

I want Earth
to gag
as I’m lowered
in my grave,

I want worms
to be nauseous
at the thought
of digesting
my flesh,

I want hard living
and bad decisions
to read
like an epitaph
on my corpse.

Risky Mark

in the ghetto
alone, caring
about nothing
but a fix
is dangerous.

But when demonic
are composing
on decomposing

even the blind
can see
you’ll take them
to hell
with you
if that’s

all it takes
to kill
the conductor
and silence
this symphony
of discord.

As Death Begs

Death is sitting

on the sidewalk

against a storefront—

knees pulled up,

head sagging,

arms outstretched,

hands cupped—

begging for change.

He’s dressed
like a bum
I see there

Not one person
in this city
has noticed
as they walk by
him, except me.

And I’m too busy
chasing Chiva—
Death’s cheap catalyst—
out the pockets
of Mexicans
to give a shit,

Chew, Motherfucker

Panic stricken,
clawing the wind
for an exit,
yet afraid
to gnaw bone
clamped on
by the trap
you’ve set
and sprung.

The time
has now come
to chip teeth
and taste

That’s How We Rolled

When I was a kid
There was four of us
that ran around
together every day—

We drove a homemade
two stroke
lawn mower engine
Go-cart, all of us
taking turns
racing around
the neighborhood
on wheels stolen
from the kid on the block
we called, “faggot.”

We made a scrap wood
lemonade stand
out of lumber taken
from construction sites,
then tricked a girl
we called, “freak”
into drinking our piss.

We ding-dong ditched
the Asian neighbor
Billy’s dad called, “gook,”
after filling bags with shit
to leave on his porch,
then lit them on fire
and went running
to hide in bushes
where we laughed
as he stomped.

We even tricked
the “Brainiac” kid
(who was always in his house
doing things
we didn’t understand,)
into believing
we wanted
to play.
We invited him
to my backyard,
and when he got there
we kicked his ass,
then sent him running home
bleeding and crying.

I don’t think any of us
to be malicious,
I just think none of us
wanted to be the victim
who got stuff stolen,
drank piss,
stomped on shit,
or ass kicked
for no reason other than
being different.

We were your average
Middle America kids
raised to believe
cruelty crushes fear
and might is right.

So we got everything
that scared us
by being different
before it
could get us.

After all, isn’t that
the American way?

Bio: Scott Wozniak is a poet, short story writer, and chaos enthusiast. He works can be found wondering like lost bastard children both online and in the real world, if you find one please keep it warm. Also, his latest chapbook collection needs a home, if you have a press with room for a vagrant or would like more info about him, please go to: