JACK SCOTT

Jack scott

SPIDER

Long legged orb,

lurking hungrily

upon her net of latticed air

welded tight with crystal light,

at first sight in levitation

so finely spun’s her web,

art knit from nothing

onto nothing

so it seems.

Fasting,

taut and faithful

as the seams she spins and weaves

abiding in her hunger

she grooms her public loom

hidden in plain sight.

Eye music:

dew-bellied notes upon the threads,

held in perfect pitch,

distillate of darkness

clear now with dawn’s fresh light

like tears when weeping’s done,

back inside the air by noon.

Air

which stirs the largest things

when moved in all its might,

calm, is stirred itself

by many tiny moving things:

an ocean swum by swimmers

small enough to drown

in a single drop of rain,

plowers in this edgeless space

whose furrows seal too quick

to sow with anything.

Insects:

little zippers

closing up the air they parted,

healing little tears in space

on their way to anywhere

birdlife of lower air

a la carte potential

groceries for a feast

on spider’s dinner table,

uncharted in their haste.

Air is ocean

beyond the spider reef.

Its currents waft the careless

to, not through

the spider’s sieve.

She stalks

and plucks the stuck:

stranded sailors of the sky,

dines privately on profit,

one eye upon the store,

the other on her overhead.

She grooms her face

and gleans the crumbs

from here and there

upon the tightropes

of her lair, spread upon

the public, ordered air,

routine of her average day,

but all days are not the same,

one size does not fit all.

Cause can be half a world apart

from its unforeseen effect.

All that has been large before

can be normaled by enormity

if there be Juggernaut

up to the task.

Nova-noon! New island

born unto a distant sea

erupts volcanically

wails steam

and, spewing lava ,

screams loud enough

to deafen oyster beneath obstetric sea,

clears its ruptured throat

of stinking sulphur breath,

crimson bile and magma phlegm.

Firebelches drive all space insane

smashing everything within it,

driving ocean rudderless upon itself

stampeding all the winds of earth

into just one wind, looting gravity,

with nothing firm enough to brake it.

Darkest daylight’s dawn

sees beanstalk timbered low

without a logger’s warning.

The tempest of this island’s birth

rips pages from the record book,

strews them upward into chaos

swift as lightning going home,

loud as all its thunders.

Wakened into nightmare

alert in ready vigilance,

metabolism’s price,

ancient instinct cast molten

congealed into the form of beast

too loyal to leave the web

untended for a moment

too stomach to be mind,

too now ever to be then.

Where would it go?

Whatever could it do?

Milkweed, cradle of the web,

wind rocked and brittle

danced in frenzied tempo

with extremity.

Built better than she knew

for a gentler use

the web became a sail,

prevailed when its anchor gave,

the milkweed tower

snapped off low

from its purchase on the earth

with a final body blow.

A piece,

the entire ship flew free

coughed from earth complete:

Milkweed, web and spider:

Dorothy sticking to her farm,

her farm stuck tight to Dorothy.

Fierce at first

the course of clearing earth

collisionless through all debris.

More slowly than its birth

the tempest leaves

the ravaged earth

behind, below

overcome at last

by subtler victor,

gravity.

Silent

at the lower edge of silence

it sighs its last and dies

in resignation

upon the upper edge of air,

thin and growing thinner,

becoming very rare.

So odd to be so slight

so suddenly,

out of context,

free of everything but air,

this failing wind behind it all,

emphysemic, weak and small

from running all the way upstairs so fast

with such a heavy load,

let go now in weariness.

Highest spider

in the deepest trench,

of thinnest sea

drowns softly

as the final lick

of longest wave

now beckons home

to kidnapt life

in this far upper place,

tugs softly back.

Wind ghost whispers

its last summons

in crystal frost

on gossamer

for spider stuck

upon the Great Divide

of Up and Down

Dreamvaguely,

behind a tiny pair

of heavy lidding eyes

the spider’s vision:

milkweed trailing comet floss,

slowly gaining spiral

fluffed open by the feeble wind,

web within it billowing-

masterpiece of hunger

where there is prey,

though strong as steel samara

here frail parachute

seeking traction

for the best way down,

not finding it;

up may now be stronger.

Spider has spun art

that’s freed her

from her drudgery,

her livelihood’s insistence,

incessant as the tides.

The artist’s on her art,

and in it, fisherman

reeling in what’s left of earth

to Oz, a brief reality.

Still planet,

leisurely revolving

in no haste or hurry

distance becomes you,

pretty earth.

Pretty , pretty, pretty earth,

beyond the spinning web

so small, bugsize,

it seems caught in it,

dessert, the proper touch

to end the feast of feasts

this sight of hunger’s end

now that hunger’s nearly past,

all illusion now of appetite.

A dream instead of hunger,

vision takes the place of thirst

a dream of wining,

dining

and never being done

A dream within the dream of dreaming

at the edge of up and down

a dream of living on unhungry

or dying full-

nothing in between,

the gift of time

that would endow

equal opportunity for all

to continue falling up

while everything falls

down and out

and nevermore back in.

All that goes up

does not come down

nor should it.

The dream, continued:

a larger web to spin,

the fortitude to do it,

a web from sun and moon to every star,

large enough to hold

all things within it and at once.

Deeper, deeper, in we go

(anaerobic self-hypnosis?)

the mistress of the smaller web

spins the larger, bucket list,

her bill of rights:

homestead on the larger web

followed by retirement,

a deed to hold the property,

low interest reconstruction loans,

alarm to warn of trespass,

gun to keep bad guys out,

freezer and refrigerator, electricity,

fresh food in  the refrigerator,

an insect supermarket near at hand,

good health or (failing that) free pills,

time to learn to read, and spider books

bifocals for the finest print,

company to talk to,

music, a psychiatrist,

time and a half for Saturdays,

Sundays off with double-time,

walks beyond the lattice park,

two weeks’ vacation on a yellow flower,

pension for old age,

bird insurance (to remain uneaten),

cremation after death,

spider union to keep it fair

(protecting patent, contract, share),

recognition in a mirror,

then time to think,

reflect,

and dream.

All winds wear out

and every spider dies.

Each dreamer has a final dream.

All gusted into space again

the web with all its benefits

the spider and the sun and moon

the stars

by a wind so large

it doesn’t need to blow

to move all things away

from where they were.

When that wind falters,

fails

to move things further on

they come to rest again

right where they were,

yet always

some inexperienced things

dream a little further on

dream within a dream of dreaming

vision at the switch of choice

choosing

falling all the way again

down

or falling further up.

L12 ®Copyright 1974 Jack Scott. All Rights Reserved.

From Poemystic.Com

ADDICTIONS

Givens: things you can’t subtract

-and those you won’t.

Time was needle-sharp when new

to separate skins.

Each longs for unadulterated blood:

the fresh pink veins of childhood’s girl,

the blue of childhood’s boy

when love flowed sweet

as milk from mother

directly from each lover

to the other.

Love is heroin to the spirit,

which could have lived without it

well, and less expensively.

Untoughened by the skin’s abuse

withdrawal strikes

like rusty nails bent double

back and forth by rival hammers

until fatigued and broken off

bluntly flush with wooden skin.

The appearance of surfaces

as smooth and even

is far preferable to stubble

and the risk of others

grading you and keeping score.

The nurse who ghosts her station

lingering last on call,

polishing perfection dull,

scrubbing at the germs,

taking secret inventory

long after sister angels

have flown back to their nests,

self-medicates against

her homeward journey

and what lies at its end:

second morning of the day-

Snow White’s Prince-less-

prepares for solitary exodus

pulling out chin whiskers

in acned mirror,

brushing her lackluster hair,

sniffing smells that won’t wash off

clinging to the uniform

she’s dreading to take off

and expose her image

to possibility of eyes,

especially her own.

Withdrawal is lidless snake

coiled into a question mark

lying deadly

in the sentence of the trail

interrogating all who try to pass:

Why me? Why me?

Wordless password

Resonated deeply.

Statistically asleep,

though no one knows for sure,

is lying in the middle of the only path

between what never was

and what will never be,

clogging it for others.

Though the snake may seem asleep,

the fangs remain awake.

Tanned by time,

toughened by too much of it,

leather is the tightest fit,

tailored by myopia

a quilt, a potpourri,

well proportioned

for a flashbulb instant,

but with no room

allowed for growth-

straitjacket skin.

The bible might well have said

that god is thread.

Though one eye’s on the sparrow

his other’s on the needle

tautly stitching souls into their sacks,

a sermon at a time.

Straight shooters

don’t always hit their target;

suicides leap off the bridge

and sometimes miss the water

because their skin’s too tight,

never broken in just right.

Claustrophobia’s hell.

We needn’t know just what it is

as long as we can use it

and it remains within the rules

we conjure for it.

Plug, receptacle and wire-

it is that simple

in our worship and our practice.

Raw power raging in,

obedience trickling out.

A something to keep nothing

beyond arm’s reach

and mindless.

Electricity:

another name for deity.

Specific life is short,

appetites long, insatiable,

lusting to outlast death

and, as instincts, able.

Starvation dies only

when appetite has eaten

itself and every crumb

then, regurgitating boredom,

attempts to piece into the puzzle

Rorschach silhouette of remorse

for not fulfilling promise

made at birth.

Appetite is hunger, passion

for anything the mind’s bent on.

Starvation takes too long

for tidy suicide: amnesia.

No union for hunger artists,

who, uncommissioned,

go unsung, unpaid,

no royalties or tips,

and no applause.

The larger hunger, fast,

is eaten by the longer, slow.

My appetites are older than I will ever be.

Life is longer than all its appetites

served as a single meal,

stronger than any single passion to curtail it,

but the one that pulls the trigger.

Tetanus, one of many

blood brother godlings

of intravenous pantheon

joins around the fire

burning streambeds crimson,

dry, and scumming all the moats,

sometimes lingers

within the tender blood

when the party’s over.

If you must burn rocket fuel,

get a proper rocket.

Your ticket cost you dearly;

you’re due a longer ride,

than three weeks maximum

if your needle’s tetanasty.

You’ll be denied your right

to voice complaint-

also your ability . . .

Shame, shame on you.

Grease that squeaky wheel

lest it run over you.

And patronize a better circus.

God isn’t up,

and compasses are flat and round,

unsound .

It’s unsettling to be so unfound.

Much like history,

travelogue is travesty:

core borings all.

Geography of spirit is terrain

where being found requires confession,

credentials, passports and degrees,

geology as well.

Searching is a strange profession,

rarely overpaid.

Finding’s even rarer,

but is its own reward.

Although maps and charts proliferate

there are far more trails and paths

than can be found upon them.

Wilderness abounds

for those who don’t get lonely

in space that is too large

or small

and won’t settle down

on just one planet.

Musty smell of much hugged pillows

without cases, without softness,

comfort in appearance only,

surrendered to the sheets below,

beyond semblance of concern,

now that urgency’s been fed its bottle.

Dirty needles

dirty now, dirty always,

running sewer pipes containing

urine yellow tears

above a grave of unwept sorrow

as they dry upon the unmade bed

among the other fading smells.

Like the user,

on the outside sometimes clean,

but far less so within.

Why make the bed?

It will be lain in again.

Why go home?

It isn’t there.

Marijuana look-a-likes,

cigarettes are tubes of solace

for the poor of lung

who will bequeath,

but not inherit.

Treated air is surgery

for the loyally afflicted;

the sutures, twenty to the pack,

come with twenty filters

at no extra charge.

Coal miners are so lost and lonely

in too much shallow open space.

They must go back to work again

to breathe deeply their familiar air.

The pendulum of law,

an application of Poe’s fiction

carried further than intended

into courtrooms and chambers

of legislation

where Kafka’s mirth presides

ironically as handcuffs and leg irons.

More politicians smoke tobacco

than have, in all the past, smoked pot,

but the times are changing,

followed slowly by the law

with justice lagging out of sight as usual.

Now they card you when you’re eighty

and have their connoisseurs’ choice

of confiscated pot.

It all makes equal sense.

Alcohol is legal, help yourself.

Each evening

you can be an actor in another play.

It’s alright to slur your words;

your audience is thespians

who also can’t pronounce them.

Within limits, legal:

speed for one

and you can’t wobble;

cars are heavy, lethal weapons;

drive with care,

at least as if you care.

Alcohol is solvent,

dissolving many things.

You don’t have to be a chemist

to benefit from them.

But you can be an artist:

design your own credentials,

and draw or paint

your imaginary portfolio

in any medium:

a big game hunter just back from Africa,

a captain who barely made it ‘round the Horn,

a casting couch recruiter from Hollywood,

anything, anybody, anything.

As they say if you believe,

you’ll be believed

or not, and then so what;

no law’s been broken.

Don’t sweat last call,

there’re many more to come,

So what the zoo is closing,

you have your own cage.

Bedtime for the seesaw.

If tomorrow’s lost

in tonight’s leftover haze,

that’s just another kind of clock

alarming sleep from sandbags

between the dream and dreamer

sleeping tight,

negotiating morning

against another supersaturated night:

another shoe, another floor.

Read the paper

reviews hot off the press,

can you remember what you drank,

what you had for dinner if you ate,

who you said whatever to.

If so, you’re safe and healthy,

another lie which you believe again.

That glass you see half empty,

is sloshing at the brim.

His canvas:

hammock between too distant trees

upon which he levitates

in barely shade

while watching games

between the Furies and the Muses

on his inner eyelids.

He’s taken a commission:

a portrait of reality

which won’t hold a pose,

so he works from memory

and intensity of vision

breaking all the rules

with no resistance from his subject,

surprising him.

It’s easier

than he ever thought it’d be.

No deadline here, no quota,

he is his own employer,

though not his boss, his driver,

no one over him,

none under.

He answers to no one,

but paints his questions,

and in painting, answers them,

balancing each equation

in his own way

quasi-mathematically.

His work will never end-

he knows it.

You don’t have to swim an ocean

shore to shore,

only stay afloat,

while avoiding sharks.

There will come a time

when he’ll be out of paint and canvas,

his brushes will be stiff or bald-

no matter.

What’s in his eye is in his mind

and that is in his hand

forever-

paint on.

You’re all you need.

Some mangers are too crowded ,

no room at any inn

and no way to get out

past those in line behind you,

extras for the sequel.

Reservations are for those

who think they know

what’s going to happen

and plan ahead.

In the East, a lodestar,

was for three,

compelling them to make a journey

timed to seem no accident

to the eyes and minds

of those who later read the book

and watched the movie after.

But they made just one mistake:

arriving thirty some years early.

They were meant by god

to rescue him.

Stopping is addiction,

as much as going on.

When not smoking gets you high

looking at what’s in that glass,

celibately staring at her ass,

how powerful, Interruptus!

How dangerous

to stand in its way!

How long can you keep it up?

How long can you swim,

be up for one more stroke?

If you can’t turn away from it, whatever,

condemned to watch without touching

you’re hooked,

you’re dry, not sober,

without pussy, pussy-whipped.

How can you quit quitting,

give up the giving in?

Are there more steps than minutes in a day,

the ones you must take at a time

in this mirror existence?

L11 ®Copyright 1975 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.

From Poemystic.com

CHARLES POTTS

We were catapulted

into some kind of sky

together, strangers.

Sky?

They told us it was up,

but withheld Astronomy.

They washed their hands

in our innocence,

then warehoused us

out of sight, above.

They didn’t want to deal with us,

so they dealt us out.

They couldn’t deal

with blossoming,

or how to nurture those

who are the most of them.

Charley, choose,

I told you

before it’s done for you,

quick before you bore on in,

be somebody else:

Pick! Quick!

Just now

who would you rather be?

“You”, you said,

“I would rather be

in your place than where I am.”

Thank you, Charley

for that curse,

that millstone,

that fiction to fulfill that I could never.

They threw you on a trampoline,

but you bounced back and stuck.

You rubbed their nose

in what went wrong,

showed them

they were part of that.

You believed the ground was hard,

so for you it was.

You flattened,

bottomed out.

You landed hard.

I haven’t landed yet.

I hadn’t thought of you

in twenty years,

but freshly feel your wound.

They buried you alive, I think,

but they could not catch me.

Where did you land?

I should go back

to measure your impression,

and your silhouette.

Did they name a street for you?

I’d like to think

you lived and healed

and made a ripple,

not a dent.

I’m safe.

They disremember me,

but you

if you survive

still in their midst

who now

would you rather be?

L9 ®Copyright 1976 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.

From Poemystic.com