Scott Schuer

Without a Doubt

Scott Schuer

Wigs, old movies, people doing
tedious things, and
boring.

Too much work for
too little gain.

Razored and tooth-brushed, I
seek creams in tubes on top of
others, on top of another.

The current state pretends
toward the mega, the ultimate – but,

in wanting to know,
really, all is here in shape and form,
identical to the form and shape
otherwise.

Names of people, references to
places, and the defining of things – poetry
does not make.

If that’s the case,
what does poetry make?

Hypertensive, hypothermic, and
every degree in between;
Sandberg’s “Ten Definitions…;”
Ink on paper, or
blood on the sand; A child with
screwed-up eyebrows, conjuring
screwed-up, imaginary
friends.

This list is, with notable
exceptions,
exhaustive.

Blinking at the Sky

Scott Schuer

“Is the sun getting hotter?” seems a
reasonable question, subject to debate.

Science says, “stars contain a finite amount of
fuel. Once used, gone forever, transmuting its
form.”

Some artists burn brightest,
before they cease to be.
Everything in extremis blinks off
then on.

Zeros and ones say, “Finish the poem
before ink runs dry!”

Because,

“an eighth of an inch in
plastic cylinder could
expire any
time.”

Look Carefully

Scott Schuer

Searching for fire wood in a
neatly clipped pile requires
patience.

Some wood is green,
some is rotten, some is
ready to burn.

Upon closer inspection, a
mantis lives and thrives –

among the green, among the
rotten, among the
ready.

Statika/Lectricity

Scott Schuer

The word itself abrades, itches, holiday sweaters from
Winter’s domain. Conflicts dangle from family trees.
Sweat, heat, thrusting grunts, balance a
sterile scent.

Sweet, human honeyskunk evokes the guilt, the foam,
the poem of seasons. Grandparents and elders wait with
auras of paint remover, rust repellant, and curb
feelers.

The brave, the unafraid, confront seasonal
Dioramas. Entering the peephole, they scrape and
scratch, flesh and
form into shapes
which heal.

Shapes that
calm the
soul.

Escape Clause

Scott Schuer

Then –
suddenly awake, fibrous from
the slowly-kicked cold and
odd position of cat,
my still sleeping body –
twisted in ways of
accommodation.

Prone, on green sheets,
between the folds of 3:00 a.m. and
a light in the east – there, it
twinges, nightstick-deep
in the small of my back, a
sub-black, post-dream semaphoric
wavering.

Is this it? DNA’s unfiltered mortality
peeling back my bliss?

When mercy usurps a selfish nature,
something has got to
blow – seismic in significance,
reluctant in the presence of change, in
ways of
accommodation.

Swimming in the Spent Fuel Pond

Scott Schuer

Harrisburg, in the last century, slowly wound its way through our red, white, and blue electron psyche.  Pripyat glowed with graphite tonnage.
Teenagers still danced and cared about the fuck.
The clicking and crackling, held at yard’s length, kept us from feeling what can’t be felt.  Geiger’s name dropped to the back of the queue, America split into red and blue, the earth trembled and
oceans grew.
The Sun still rises in Eastern skies – beta, gamma, iodine flowers and leaches – and sometimes
breaches, say,
human device.
FU KU SHI MA DAI I CHI is no haiku stanza, it may no longer compete for a place name.  But the bathing – good, and the temperature – fair,
wherever one
may find
solitude.

Skyline

Scott Schuer

Significance vaporizes between
pages and mouseclicks, the
applause and breathtaking pearls
disintegrate with disinterest and shoulder shrugs –
involuntary gestures, jonesing for the “whatup next?”
making impotent solitary vision stakes,
shaking awake
collective naptime.

From coast to placid coast, from server to
stolid server, waiting for interpretations, the
similes and satire of expansive irrigation disks, of
concrete slabs and ribbons, of
drought and deluge, of
carbon bipeds consuming all with
tall, silicon, security voices,
successfully steering
nostalgic SUVs.

The Factories Making Outside

Scott Schuer

Make—one meaning?
Create—or not.
That is—make.
A nail, some wood, and other parcels of unidentified machine flotsam.
Metal ( all types: slag aluminum, iron, pig-iron, steel, composite, industrial silver, industrial gold, combinations of no real definition).  Does this all add up to
Make?
Does “make” apply so much, beyond what is done to fix a leaky life? Does make apply so much as to do a good deed—through creation?
Is “make” manipulation, or honest intention?

  • I could make you a birthday cake
  • I could make you a place to store your shit
  • I could make it so that your car runs any time of the year
  • I could make you governor, or senator, or president
  • I could make it so that you’ve never been born.

You could be a ”made man,” or, someone ”on the make.”
We never really think of these words, unless it’s that first ”make out,” or the first time you used ”make up.”
How should I, to wonder,
make your drink?