Mark Scott

"the best damned poet in the business"

Why This Website Address and Tagline?

On the day I graduated from college in 1982, a fellow graduate, who for two years had been very generous with her steady supply of cocaine, threw a party with her housemates. We were all friends. She told us her father would be there. We had never met him, but somehow we knew him as “a shipping magnate.” And then there he was. Dave, Jon, Jonathan, Cal, and I stood […]

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In Far Colorado

Illumination of it came from London, in a room I didn’t understand, boy–sized, but bigger than a coffin. The wallpaper had roan stallions flanked by cowboys and Indians, all grounded on a big blue sky. I lay on the bed like a shovel, either hand in spitting distance of a pint of White Horse and a puck of Skoal, part of the cartoon; but the cloud drawn over me shed […]

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Together in a Tent for the Night

What forms happiness takes, if formal— I close my eyes to capture its normal fluid state, the better to hear it espoused. But no one knows where pleasure is housed, not really. I wish it didn’t move around so much, were polymorphous and stable. But we are such agile creatures that sleep alone’s an adventure and an area of research. I’m not against a cure. I talk too much. For […]

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I. The world’s abrasive. Its buildings are heavy. The earth is fairly firm. The whole universe is tense. II. We don’t know what will happen next. The moment of contact is frightening, so we have affairs. III. There’s no explaining the things people get good at or the people who get good at things. IV. Sara’s living room was lofty and dark. Then one afternoon she put on The Allman […]

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Voice Training

How evenly my grandmother’s pan conducts the heat! It’s Revere, she’d say, that’s a good brand. But her voice did it better yet— chafed nothing, nothing ever scorched. She was always hungry for love, a pretty, dark little thing who thought Black Beauty too much of a name for her mare and so called her Dude; had a bitch named Reilly, after the man she got her from, a nice […]

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Old Love for New

(Denver, summer of 1983) Pretty soon it all mixes together and you can’t tell which noise goes with cicadas, which crickets. What is it, this stupid juice? At least the drink is clear. Suck it down and smash out: the futile suburban dogs bark, dumb moths splatter wing-dust on the water: crazy thinking of you, my balm and my other. Men they take a thing you say and can’t repeat […]

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