for scott wannberg
By A. RAZOR
he rides off at the end before the credits roll like teardrops
hey, man, like where you at with it? what gives?
big heartedness is like a loch ness nessie
all spellbound in these times & tomes
they take a fuzzy photo that looks rigged
when its right there all along the watchtower
waiting for the train that takes away the pain
google eyed & miss cheviosity win the race
by a knows hair in palookaville, bub
what me? crazy? like it was comical?
what’s it to you anyway, mister?
I got a right to linger in the dog-eared aisle at dutton’s
your finger pointing at me makes them nervous
like you told me it was my turn to dance all along
(remember that watchtower is always looking over it’s shoulder)
listen here, amigo, I got friends in low places
maybe you have heard of them
you seem to know more about the credits
before the movie even rolls by
this make-up artist has no imagination
I hear this was slapstick edited by a keystone capered mackerel, holy
wholly? yes, all the mack real you can eat in one doggy bowl
there are stars out tonight but they just lay about on sidewalks during the day
collecting the gummy bare nakedness of life’s immortal steps
or I do say, was that a staircase, son? what that there man descended on
all gleamy bright and blurry as if you left us in a permanent dream sequence
oh mingo, ride your burro away from us along the dusty trail
the campfire races never meant to make the campfire girls cry so much
they sing it all off like good bluebirds in waiting should
the most fatal of femmes couldn’t not stop in loquacious admiration of those words
truth in all its glory you wrote it in big letters like a crop duster in the skylight
waiting for the slight echo to droop a refrain across your broad shoulders
like some anthemic soul stirrer singing melodies on cotton eyed cups o’ joe
tasty gold like scotch in a rocks glass tumbling down the grassy knoll
the king has fallen on broken times in memorial with a broken two boot
up on boot hill as the purple riders of the sage ride along lil’ doggies
all a whistlin’ like mothers of inventions never made in america anymore
sadly, as sparky might say, the mold is broken along with the dog bowl
that wears like a weary crown, dog biscuit as a scepter to raise overhead
as the sheepish laugh it off in crowds all alone
you ride amongs us, amigo, ride riff ride riff ride
we all can feel it in our bones
they are much more dusty since you came a tumbleweedin’ through
on your way to greener pastures that you will always live in
like the words you always left behind you with a serious giggle gaggle of songs
extraordinaire … songs, magnificent songs
burning down the barn dance for you tonight
coast to coast reveries alongside that coastal starlight track
even the bums know your tunes they hum along too
like mythic bumble bees of testimony to words as words triumphant
they were only words that you arranged and selected so careful
they were only the hearts that were lost and found you touched with them
they were legends before you read each line aloud
always with angels always with bums always with a carny barkers conviction
that the trumpets would never stop
that the guitars would never cease
that gates would always be open
for anyone willing to listen
for anyone willing to read
for anyone willing to
you made for a willing world
that will never forget you
A. RAZOR is a writer that makes art, photography and music based on his experience growing up in the streets of the world, living outside the common margin and off the grid most of his life. He tries to celebrate and memorialize this experience and the many people, places and things that have been like living signposts along the way. “Come, take a journey. Come, find some shelter with me.” For a moment, maybe, even if for just a moment.
I’m feeling grief for the passing of a writer I never knew. To me, the Bay Area belonged to Allen Ginsberg and Lawrence Ferlinghetti and friends from that generation. And there was Scott, a poet seven years younger than I am, whom I completely missed until I read of his passing. Out of curiosity I looked up some of Scott’s poetry on the Internet and read it aloud- not read but, more accurately, declaimed. In college- Speech major, English minor- I often participated in poetry reading. Scott’s work flows so smoothly that you’d think I had practiced it for weeks. What a clear, lucid voice. And stilled so young. Rest well, Scott. I wish I’d discovered him years ago so that I could have let him know how much his work means to me. Blessed dreams, Scott. I love you.
Yes! Oh, he’ll yes!