Fatigue

The sky overhead is red with black smoke curling

Through it like a mamba on the move cross the water

I snatch another pair of people plummeting from 

Their fifth story apartment where they bought Chinese

And tipped their delivery driver fifty-three cents on a

Seventy-six dollar order, and I just can’t stop the 

Thought of letting them fall to the ground like a 

Box of overcooked beef lo mein and letting someone

Else clean their messes up for once. 

I don’t, of course, I move on to the next victim,

A man who hasn’t bathed in weeks, trapped under

A collapsing shelf of thousand-dollar figurines from

A bunch of children’s T.V. shows, who hasn’t spoken

To another human being in months except to tell 

The anonymous girls of his favorite fandom that the show

Isn’t made just for them, and they wouldn’t get the nuance, 

And they just are trying to take everything away from

People like him. And I wonder how many times his chubby

Ass would skip across the asphalt if I threw him.

I place him down gently, happy to put distance between us

And rocket up to the roof where a child is crying, her hands

Clenched around a slightly smoking stuffed armadillo.

When she sees me, she backs away from the roof, fear

Swelling in her eyes and I suddenly realize I’m covered

In ash and debris and possibly a little bit of somebody else’s

Blood, and I crouch to appear smaller and extend my hand.

“It’s alright, little one. I’m a superhero. I’m here to save you.” 

Whether she understands or not, she decides that anywhere

Is better than a burning rooftop, which is not true but I don’t

Have the heart to explain that to her just yet, and I carry her

To the ground. A chorus of “Thank you”s and “My Hero”s

Fall on ears that are just tired, so tired of protecting people

From their greatest enemy, which has always been themselves.

I smile, I wave. I do the catchphrase (if you don’t know it,

I’m gonna consider it the best thing that’s happened to me

All damn day) and zoom away, more than happy to let the

Firefighters and police finish the rest of it. I zip back to my

Secret lair, which is a shitty apartment on the East side, 

Crack open a drink, and sit in my recliner. And then…

The signal. The same stupid signal. The same stupid

Signal of the sigil on my stupid uniform. It’s a waste

Of time, a waste of breath, they’ll just find themselves

In harm’s way again tomorrow. But what else am I

Going to do? Ignore the screams that I can hear even

From this distance. I flip off my mirror, quickly splash

The soot and debris off my face and fly off. Again.

Meal Plan

Breakfast:

A tall stack

Of almond & peanut-butter

Pancakes with OJ

Lunch: 

A perfectly grilled

Cheese sandwich with a

Bowl of chicken noodle.

Dinner:

Turkey with all the fixing

Potatoes and rolls and veggies

Mounded high.

Desert:

A shot of premium

Malt whiskey and

A hollow point. 

Miracle Cruise

 Hi.

I built you a boat 

Don't ask where it goes or how it moves 

You just need to trust me 

Just pick out a deck chair,

Order yourself a drink,

Lay back and relax.

You don't need to do anything

Your fare has been paid 

The only thing I need you to do 

Is close your eyes, relax, and please, 

Please stop talking 

That last one that isn't necessary 

It's just easier to work without 

An angel whispering in my ear.

When you wake up, you’ll be

Exactly where you’ve always 

Wanted to go, at exactly the

Time you should have arrived.

You’ll find friends you can barely

Imagine having ever lived without

And the freedom and space to 

Become the beautiful person

You were always meant to be. 

Me? 

Well…

Someone has to steer the ship 

Finally, Harvest Time

At the corner of Collins and Addams, there is a field,

A vast sweeping expanse of corn or grain or something

Worse, that spoils the otherwise picturesque view

Of an old Upstate forest. It marks the end of nature.

The plants here were not born in this damp earth.

They were uprooted, swept across a bitter sea,

And left to choke out everything that came before it. 

The house behind it is a ruin, a dark maze of rotting beams

And shattered windows and, surely, broken hearts.

The reaper and the sowers long since abandoned their

Scythes and sickles for something more humane. 

Trading lives instead of livestock. The field still stands

In the soil that they sullied all those centuries ago.

The dynasty dies but the damage lives forever. 

So when the first lick of flame catches the broken stalks

There is a collective hush followed by silent joy.

Black smoke replaces dirty fruits of an unclean labor

And the world is made a better place for it. Care is taken,

For once in this damned soil’s life, to protect the wood

From its lesser brothers. The hungry fire doesn’t move

Past the edges of the crops. The ground is finally clean. 

Darkened soil brings lightened moods and a choir 

Of songbirds express their gratitude through the night.

Some will say the easy part is done, but most of them

Have never had to work to free the salvageable parts

Of the present from the gnarled roots of the past.

There are no easy parts. There are only the seasons

Of work that the soil requires to thrive once more.

Lucky Me

They whittle their words into weapons

With a dark, demented glee that rivals

The most sadistic of craftsmen. 

They plunge the tips of their blades

In a venom much more toxic than

Strictly necessary, hoping that even

A grazing blow will be enough

To bring me to my knees. 

But luckily, I don’t exist. 

My feelings, as explained to me

To by so-called experts and couch-surfing

Savants, are a cry for help. 

Crocodile tears don’t burn;

Scars made in response to harmless banter

Don’t even have the decency to show up

On time, despite how often I invite them. 

The people I love are an illusion,

A smoke-screen invented by whatever

Opposing party needs a smoke-screen today.

Our feelings can’t be hurt, because 

They aren’t real. And since my feelings

Weren’t hurt, what the Hell do I have to

Complain about in the first place? 

So they invent new items to bombard me

With, MORE DAKKA! To hurl at,

Well, I guess by their own admission

Nothing. Which, I suppose, begs further

Questions. For example, dear reader, 

If me and mine aren’t real people with real

Feelings, then why are you so damned

Upset that we exist?

Dynamite Smiles

 That smile’s dynamite!

Keep it lit. 

Let the flames tickle your fingers;

The burn only lets you know

You’re still alive, still kicking.

The world is rubbish, I know, 

But that doesn’t mean we can’t

Have a little fun at its expense.

So sing your favorite song in 

A crowded mall. Dance to a drum beat

Only you can hear and do whatever

Crazy dance moves your legs remember.

Charleston, Macarena, Electric Slide 

All the way into the arms of that

One person who always struck your 

Fancy. Let them know. Or don’t. 

But feel that lurch in your stomach? 

People who don’t matter don’t

Get lurches in their stomachs. 

Play a game, bury yourself in books.

Find an anime that makes no sense

And laugh until your sides explode. 

Run, eat, jump, play, dance, sing. 

The world is vast and beautiful and

Yeah, it’s really hard to fucking see

That when you keep having to deal

With bullshit, but I promise it’s there. 

And on some lonely evenings as I

Sweat through my third shirt of 

The day and the pain pounds 

From the soles of my feet to my head,

I might need you to tell me about

That anime, that game, that book. 

That boy you kissed on impulse;

That girl you talked to for the first time. 

And that will bring a slight smile 

To my face. And I’ll begin to think

That maybe my life is worth living too

A Bit Rough

 I can't feel her today. 

I know she's there, 

The lights are on, 

Her lime green 200 Duke 

Still locked inside.

She doesn't feel like coming 

Out she rarely does 

In her own words: “It's 

Not shyness purr-say, 

Just preservation.”

I can picture her,

Sprawled on a lonely bed, 

Her hands running over 

Her hairy thighs and 

Wincing, retreating.

The world doesn't deserve her, 

And neither do I,

But one has to wonder how long 

A rebel's daughter can 

Keep her hands off those 

Freshly painted bars and 

Show the world 

Just how fast 

She can go.

Cold Hands

The sun glints off the snowflakes

Nestled in her red hair.

Her small, pink tongue darts out

And catches a wayward speck.

My body tenses when she grips my arm

"Come on," she croons, "your turn."

But my tongue has grown a dozen

Times its normal size. It refuses.

We walk to a hot cocoa stand.

I buy us both a drink, though she

Lazily attempts to push a five

Into my hand. "Well, thanks," she says,

Her face nearly as red as her hair.

She takes off her gloves and takes a

Cocoa. Her hand is ice cold for

The split second it grazes mine.

 

"How are you so warm?" Her non-ringed

Hand slips under my sweater, cooling

The fire building in my chest.

We take a sleigh ride through the park.

I tell her it's free, loud enough

For the driver, then slip him ten while

She's gazing at the Christmas lights.

I go to put my hand down but

Notice hers resting there. Before I can

Pull away, she grabs it and squeezes

It tightly as we ride.

"Thanks for taking me out," she says

At her apartment door. I smile

And wish her goodnight.

"Oh, do come inside."

Some other time. She pouts, blows a kiss,

Goes inside, and embraces her husband.

Calanthe Heights

 

The wind smells sweet at Calanthe Heights

Where the beautiful flower is bred.

As I crest the hill, my breath catches.

The sun has found me once more.

Crystal blue pools of heavenly sky,

Shades of a passionate red,

My heart flutters, my blood races

As I’m caught again by the garden's allure.

Everything seems so much simpler here.

The garden only has eyes for me, 

So I sit and I stare as every piece 

Of my mind stands at attention.

I long to touch the delicate petals,

But I know they would not agree,

So I gaze as the rain tickles their buds

And let my mind indulge in invention.

But my short break is over so quickly.

I somehow convince my legs to stand.

I think once more of Calanthe Heights

Before turning my back towards the hill.

And there isn’t a moral or lesson here,

At least not one that I understand.

For it's not the fault of those beautiful flowers

That absence like madness can kill.

A Thin Pink Line

She rides naked down cobblestone streets.

Her stallion is red coated steel and black rubber, 

And it burns a bit too hot under the ever 

Watching gaze of the midday son.

She's a new myth, a modern marvel. 

No long, flowing, blond hair to censor her; 

Her pink hair spikes from the left side of her

Head, as proud and erect as her nipples.

The onlookers gawk in silent awe, punctuated

Only by the dying moans of jealous men 

And guarded housewives who had a non-dress

Just like that once, a long time ago.

She rides tall and proud, a pink and red 

Rainbow, her gentle smile strung across 

Her face. Even if she wasn't sure when she 

Put her hand on the clutch and her ass on the leather.

Introductions

 Hello and welcome to The Stott's Writing Nook. I am your host, Adam Stott (he/they)

In anticipation of my novel coming out, currently in the final draft (hopefully) stage, I have decided to recreate my blogspace. This is where I can post thoughts, ideas, poetry, short stories, character bios, and whatever else I feel like writing. 

I'm going to attempt to do two posts a week for now, until I settle into some kind of groove. I have a bunch of ideas for content but am still struggling to figure out how and what I want to share with the grand public space that is the internet. 

I'm about to flood the blog with some posts, so you can get a taste of my writing style and see if I'm somebody you might want to buy a book from some day. Feel free to comment and ask me any questions, I'll try to answer everyone as promptly as I can. 

With Love- Adam Stott