Wednesday, December 2, 2015

Scott Wozniak- Two Poems

- Self-made Man -

in the mirror
I see
false signs
of manhood
while dad lay

Add 'em up-
one bullet hole,
three stab wounds,
two callous hands,
one nose
multiple times,
too many
evaporated tears
from two bruised cheeks.

Could he
have saved me
the pain
of learning?

Your guess
is as good
as mine,
and I
'ain't exactly
the poster boy
for smarts.

- Numb -

When my first friend
to overdose on heroin
I threw a fit,
stole booze
from Safeway,
and threw a brick
through the store's window,
then got shit-faced
in an alley,
'cuz that's how he

When my second friend
to overdosed on heroin
I sat surrounded
by friends
Old Style bottles,
breaking every empty
over my head,
to convey
the pain
I felt.

When my third friend
to overdose on heroin
I too
was strung out
and figured
the most poetic statement
I could make
was to celebrate
his life
by shoving a needle
in my arm.

When my fourth friend
to overdose on heroin
I did the same
sad junkie
as last time,
never seeing
the irony.

When friends five through ten
overdosed on heroin
and died
I was in prison
and cried
alone in my cell
while thanking God
for placing me
in a casket
with an exit.

When friends eleven through fifteen
overdosed on heroin
and died
I shrugged it off,
" That's what happens
to us junkies,"
rolled my sleeve up,
and got high,

When friends sixteen through twenty
overdosed on heroin
and died
I felt nothing, but
took it as a sign
it was time
to get clean, so
I check myself in.

To date, I have
well over
two dozen friends
who overdosed on heroin
and are dead.
last year alone,
like clockwork,
every two months
another friend
overdosed on heroin
and died.
I stood numb,
thinking to myself,
" They finally got
what they wanted,"
then wondered,
" What the fuck
made me
stop wanting
to die
and start

That, to me,
is more mysterious
than death
could ever be.

Scott Wozniak is a poet, short story writer, and chaos enthusiast who's work has most recently appeared in The Five-Two's Poems on Crime Anthology, Lummox 3, and in The Trippin' Spriggin' an Anthology of Psychedelic Poetics. He says, "Thanks!" to those of you who made it through that last long bastard of a poem.


  1. That last, long bastard of a poem could be a circular poem that never ends. You just keep returning to the top and reading again for as long as there are prodigal sons still unwilling to swap a half-world of unfillable space & gratuitous suicide for a valid world of comfortable clichés & pipers playing sweet songs of coming home—

  2. You write from the front lines with a bayonet my friend. Simply brilliant poetry.

  3. Thanks man, that means a lot, especially when coming from someone who's work I've been regularly enjoying, such as yourself. Keep up the bloodletting!!! - Scott