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FrannyFoo May 21
You are not like the rain
You never teased my skin
Planting ideas in my head
That grew roots in my heart
The acid Dripping from your tongue,
You burnt me.

The storm raged

The waters haven't calmed since.
I felt love, I Feel love, I bleed hurt
And long for a tsunami
To sweep me from this nightmare.
Come back
Break my skin
Please
Show me what it feels like to love again.
Let me dance in the toxicity
And bathe in the poison
Your scent
Your fumes
Paint
Dirt
Home
A fresh rain falls
I'm drawn back in

Let me drown
Lucas Scott Mar 13
Ink
I want to be
   your tattoo
              skin deep and meaningful
          a complicated design
                     of interconnecting lines
      forming an image
a symbol
                       expressing an intimate
          part of
you

I want to be
        what you need
passionate red
        for a setting sunset
calming blue
        for a starry night
invigorating yellow
        for a vibrant sunflower
darkest black
        for the wisest quote
always moving with you
        when you dance
                when you laugh
                        when you cry

But if regret comes to be

I want to be
                        your mistake
                        covered up
                        a hidden memoir
             of your past
                                           guiding your future
                          an ink-stained lesson
                          lingering curse
                     but I will still be
          part of
you
Lucas Scott Feb 23
Romance is a sweaty assembly line
With shop talk and flying metal shards
Cracked safety glasses and warning signs
Hot oil, bolts and screws, and heat guards

Romance is 12-hour long night shifts
After 8 hours of class and study
Stuck in a warehouse with men on forklifts
And a redhead too shy to talk to me

Romance is a bold negotiation
Bargaining for his job next to her
A week of cleaning his workstation
A week to get her interest to spur

Romance is a stupid expression
A flower, chocolates and teddy bear
In front of the guys, a bad decision
Her running away, face as red as her hair

Romance is a terrible movie
She insisted I watch at her place
A film - to this day - I’ve yet to see
And, yet, its mention still makes my heart race

Romance is losing yourself as you touch
Fingers running softly through her long hair
And feeling lucky she wants you so much
Even after an ill-timed teddy bear
Lucas Scott Feb 11
4 am
Stumbling through the dark
Wife needs the sleep
Youngest daughter’s crying
A blind diaper change
Warming a bottle and falling on the couch
Now 2-year-old’s crying on my hip
Burp then back to the cradle
Other daughter tucked in
Suit tie briefcase keys
45-minute commute
Bus duty for middle schooler
Fights broken up graffiti foiled
90 students in 6 periods
Grading lecturing consoling mediating
After-school program
Organizing monitoring guiding
Long drive back
Screaming kids tired wife
Laundry dinner dishes
Drive to part-time job
Inventory customers cleaning up-selling
Meeting with manager
Numbers are down you might get fired
Anxious anxious anxious anxious
Clock out drive to class
Parking running looking at watch
5 minutes late
Where were you prof says
The test has already started
Scantron answer sheet
Only a pen in my pocket
Unbelievable he says
With no pencil I have to fail you
Consider this a lesson
You need to grow up
This is the real world
I consider all my poems rough drafts.  This is very experimental for me.  Any constructive feedback would be appreciated :)
Lucas Scott Jan 24
Remember how we’d sneak out of the house?
We hated the yelling and the crying
Scrunched shoulders, tiptoeing off the porch
They never noticed we weren’t there

Such a dusty neighborhood
No lines on the roads
Tar-filled cracks hot and sticky to the touch
Protruding grass a cooling reprieve

We’d push each other and kick at our feet
Toss pebbles at stop signs
And walk on that broken wooden gate
Outstretched arms to keep balance

We had a ritual before bugging Grandma
Through her side yard, to the levy
Climbing the hill in our green-black stained sneakers
Rolling down in an itchy flurry

And at the end of our dizzying tumble
Stood that venerable well
Its stony visage stoic against the unkempt field
The surrounding shoe-imprinted mud

Reaching into our pockets, we’d pull out our coins
The change from our school lunches
The money we should “save,” we were told
But, instead, we threw it into that well

The well was dark, but I could hear the PLOP
I’d imagine its decent; swaying through lingering blue
Twirling and flipping, creating small whirlpools
Then smacking the bottom with a resounding THUD

Of course, we’d make our wish
Never spoken, or else it wouldn’t come true
You’d knowingly smile at me
Your eyes filled with tears

I went back to that old well…

I followed our old path, down that cracked road
Through Grandma’s abandoned side yard
Up and over the levy; it was such a quick trip
And there in the field was our old well

Mud dried, the weather-beaten stones crumbling
Tattered rope choked a bucket-less handle
Insects oozed through rotting wood
What had happened to our change?

I peeked inside that dark, empty well
And, there, at the bottom, rested our coins
No blues, no twirling, no whirlpools
Just our lunch money entombed with dirt
Lucas Scott Jan 13
I

I celebrate my pants, and sing my pants,
And what I wear you shall wear,
For every thread belonging to me as good belongs to you.

II

I saw the best pants of my generation destroyed by madness, bleaching faded skinny,
dragging themselves through the crowded malls at noon looking for the perfect selfie,
man-bunned hipsters burning for the contemporary digital connection to the social dynamo in the machinery of online relevance

III

Let us go Pants, you and I,
With evening wash spread out against the sky
Like a ghost dancing upon the breeze;
Let us go, through certain half-full baskets,
The smelly caskets
Of unwashed trousers from one-week neglected hampers.

IV

Something there is that doesn't love my pants,
That sends the frayed-torn-cuffs under it,
And spills my muffin top in the sun;
And makes love handles even two can hold to love.

V

I have stolen
the pants
that were in
the dressing room

and which
you were probably
wearing
for a party

Forgive me
they were comfy
so soft
and so stylish


VI

Because I could not fit my Pants –
I kindly split the Seam –
The Problem is quite obvious –
I need some stronger Jeans.

VII

The patterns on your pants   
Could make a designer cry;   
But I hung on to your stance:   
Plaid boldly with tie-dye.

VIII

Call the maker of big pants,
The fabulous one, and bid him zip
In seamstress studs sumptuous sewing.

IX

What happens to lost pants?

      Do they stiffen up
      like paper as it dries?
      Or do they balloon up —
      and into the sky rise?

X

I bought some tremendous pants
and held them beside the cart
half off the hanger, with the hook
fast in the belt loop around the waist.
There was no fight.
No one had fought at all.
They hung a defeated weight,
overlooked and spurned.
Lucas Scott Jan 10
Today we mourn the death of a clown. We adorn our fanciest makeup and brightest wigs.
Our bowties spin and our rubber noses squeak, and the horns’ honks are very loud.

From our tiny cars, we tumble and slip and dance and fall over our floppy shoes.
We glide on banana peels and crash into whip-laden coconut cream pies.

We wrestle to our seats. Pushing, shoving, eye-poking, seltzer spraying.
Loud farts echo as whoopee cushions compress beneath our butts.

The priest takes the alter, but a bull charges and chases him away.
Replaced with a mime, the service finally begins.

Pulling and pulling and pulling and pulling
Handkerchiefs from our sleeves

We wipe each other’s tears
And flip over the casket

So we can say
Goodbye.
Lucas Scott Jan 8
My wife holds my hand tightly as we enter the tiny church
The harsh odor of wet wool, cotton and dust fills the foyer
The pews are full.  The signature book thick with names
Sifting through, we find a seat as the dirge comes to a close

The preacher is loud and sweaty and a distant cousin, I’m told
His mud-brown suit and tie clash against the stage’s ornate bouquets
He assures us there’s a heaven and that my grandfather was a good man
His thick southern draw a slow assault; the eulogy, a battleground

Stories are shared, and they are sweet. He paints a righteous man
Hands are raised, amens shouted. A relative grips me hard and weeps
In Jesus name, hallelujah, the lord giveth; the lord taketh away
Bow your head in prayer, he says. Let us remember our brother

And I remember. Images enter my head, and I clench my teeth
The drunken fights with grandma, the hammer used to defend herself
The scar on his palm, the knife mom drove through his calloused hand
The dark coat closet, the sound of the lock his children heard, the cries

The line to his casket is long. The sobs overpowering the morose hymn
His children are lined next to him. My grandmother is holding his hand
I lean in to see him one last time.  His red nose has vanished
He smells of embalming fluid, and his shirt is wet with tears
Lucas Scott Jan 5
Here you are, reading some book
When you should be out there
Playing football and eating *****

We got work to do
You gotta move those shingles
I gotta hammer those nails
Don’t carry so much up the ladder at once
You’ll wreck your back and slow me down
I don’t want to be stuck here with you all day

There you are, writing again
You look so different with a pen in your hand
Without packs of shingles on your shoulders

I don’t understand why you do that
You’re supposed to be a baseball star
You’re supposed to win, make me proud
You’re supposed to hate the *******
Crack jokes and laugh at the queers
I just want to be proud of you

Anyway, the last teardown left a huge mess
Put down that pen, grab that pick, and get in my truck
These shingles ain’t moving themselves
Lucas Scott Jan 3
Laying among the brown and green and red
its glassy eyes, faint and unfocused
against heavy breathing

Great job, my father’s knife unsheathes
he pats me on the back, hard and so loud
I must lean on my crossbow

We carry it back to his truck
a heavy mess, and it stinks
we work together

He tells me about his friends
the people he spends all his time with
how they all play Euchre

I ask how to play.  What is trump?
He laughs. The weight shifts
I’ve asked this so many times before

With a wet thud, we throw it in his truck bed
it hides beneath a tattered light blue tarp
fastened with frayed bungee cords

Driving, he talks about his softball team again
and in his cracked rearview mirror
the tarp lifts slightly, and I see its fat tongue

My head turns. The tears are too warm
I fall into my hands, cheeks swollen
my father focuses on the road, hands gripping the wheel
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