The following are selections by Scott Eaton
( All poems are under copyright and cannot be
re-produced without the author's written consent )

Fenceposts (January 2000)

Another weekend

Errata: Chasing the Ghosts of Disappearing Dreams (December 1998)

A night at the beach
Door jamb

From Whence I Came, I Was (December 1997)

Future's promise (taken for granted)
Hypothetical (negative)

in a place where
screams faster than physical
hold for the split endearment
let alone
the children across the way
play freely
innocently ignorant
of the killing environment
surrounding their play
few students aptly apply their
to the subject at hand
not school (books)

somehow, a meandering joke
has become the definition
in their minds, their worlds
a university, an institution
of higher bullshit and a further
to destroy what reality there once was
now only
remains little things:
drinking, drugs, social interactions
fuck politics, philosophy, feelings
has become so passe
it has become a stale enterprise

"excuse me, but would
you like to be interviewed for
our speech class, just
one question, what do people
when they first meet you?"
honestly I would answer
not too much, just because
they don't anymore,
but I answered no
because my mind wasn't as liquid
as I would like . . .
giggles followed as the girls
walked away, video cameras in tow
missing the point of
how complex a question they presented
and only allowing a short answer
one more thing I couldn't do
so many situations
so many reflections

yes, thinking, stale
preoccupations of a lesser mind
as they see it


you know its going to be
a brilliant
day when life
spits up
shades of stupid

Another Weekend
"There's still some the same stuff we got yesterday."
-Evan Dando

"Goodbye sober day"
-Mike Patton

My weekend starts on Thursday
(no classes on Friday)
leaving campus a.s.a.p.
to get away from some
of my roommates
and get back to my friends
back home,
rush hour traffic from
San Francisco to Napa,
but it's worth it
to get away
so far away
from that which invades
peace and safety.
Back in Napa,
I stop to get coffee and
run into Erin who is waiting
for Israel to show up;
they ask where I'm going
and I answer, "The bar."
They say they'll stop by
to see who is there
and say hello
(if anybody is out
they will be there).
Walk in,
Mike, Paul, Robyn,
each discussing whatevers
over mixed drinks and beers,
I join them and start
another whiskey sour binge
now that the caffeine is starting
to kick in and I can go
(or, at least, it feels that way).
Night rolls by, more people come through
and Sharon, the barkeep,
buys a round for us.
Come 1 o'clock, Paul and Robyn
leave and invite us all
back to their place,
Mike is trashed and says he will
come by, but he won't,
which is for the best
in his condition.
Handshakes around, celebrating
deconstruction, Paul and Robyn
leave and Mike puts his hand out
towards me, as I'm following suit,
but I can't shake on it.
I believe completely in
but I can't condone it.
Mike is good people,
very good people.
"I'm sorry, Mike, but I
don't like what you're doing
to yourself, I won't support it."
"You're my friend, right,
at least shake on that."
"Of course."
A serious discussion
starts concerning goings-on,
and I move in between Mike
and Kelly (Mike is giving her
a ride home). The
discussion grows
sincere and more
consuming, hugs and
whispers, private comments,
my arm around Mike's waist
and Kelly's waist
(Aaron walked by and
helped me put it there)
I remember lips
whose I don't know
but I remember them,
(Probably Kelly's
'cause that's where
my head was)
I leave the bar,
walking into the street
feeling very Mazzy Star
(like grad night on the way
to the school sanctioned
nazi-esque celebration
when all Seth wanted to hear
was "Fade Into You"
over and over).
Eventually make my way
over to Paul and Robyn's
where we smoke dope and drink
until 3 when Paul sleeps
and I go home.



Friday: My one day off
from school and work,
I sleep in (catching
up on another week
of depravation);
Waking day light
consumed by reading
Bukowski and Kerouac.
Night comes, coffee to
recharge the body,
and off to the bar again.
Find Mike, George, Aaron,
Jill, and Kelly.
Fridays at the Lamplighter
Too many fucking people
too many fucking stupid people;
why is that Friday draws out
all the weekend warrior
wannabe frat and sorority peoples?
(Paul says I'm pious;
Christ, I'm at least as hard on myself
as I am on others, but
of course,
judge not lest ye be judged too.
I'm not a carpenter
and I'm not about to
build anything great,
just how I see
what is happening.)
A drink or two,
a call to Robyn,
and we are there.
A six-pack of cheap
and some dope
with a chaser of good
George and I leave
around 1 a.m.
or so. Work tomorrow.



Saturday: Show up to work
relatively on time,
being as that my
Godhead neighbors were
having another one of their
church yard sales at their
house and some fucking
ninny decided to block my car in,
and then traffic.
Co-workers expect me
to show up
not quite there
(one time, I
was still fucked up
from the night before
and I shelved books
so that I wouldn't
deal with the public
{I work at a bookstore})
A co-worker asks
why I keep getting gift certificates
and I explain my raise
and the company's inability
to actually follow through
and supply me with gift certificates instead.
Discussion of pay
and roller coaster emotions follow;
apparently bad blood flows
toward the manager
and I'm beginning to
understand why.
When all is said and done
I let the closer borrow
some albums to make her feel
better (or perhaps to relieve my
conscience which was ridden
fairly hard by them,
although they probably didn't
mean to) (Verve's Urban Hymns
and Mr. Bungle's California).
Go home, eat, coffee,
and the bar.
Mike was there, I sat down
and ordered up a beer
(taking it easy tonight);
Mike calls George,
Aaron and Seth are over
and we should stop by.
But too many beers later
and more conversations
(Mike asks, "Why
do you write? What got
you started?" "Short stories
are fun and my poetry
is therapeutic" "No,
pretend I'm an interviewer,
I want real answers."
"I kinda have to."
"That's what I wanted
to hear, some bullshit
artistic statement, it's
We leave for George's,
Mike via Taco Bell,
I via liquor store
where I walk out with a 40.
Nobody's home at George's
so I call Paul and Robyn;
"We're out in the back porch,
come on by."
Mike and I piss
in the bushes
and go over.
Robyn and Paul are hanging
out with 2 of Paul's sisters.
I walk in, backpack over shoulder
and carrying my 40,
and they light up another joint,
talking about mortuaries, funural
homes, and fucked up nursing
experiences (Paul's sisters are nurses).
Paul's sisters go to sleep
and we all go inside;
George shows up.
George packs up some dope
and more dope
and more dope;
and it only stops for
cigarettes and new drinks.
Someone asks George if he's
heard from Jenna and Jess
(Jenna is moving out to Boston
with Jessica, a road trip on
the way there, hitting up
all points between
like only Jenna and Jess
can) (Jenna is such a special
girl, it all started off
as a vehement
love/hate relationship
metamorphosing into
mutual respect and regard.
I love her dearly, hugs and
all, something meaning
"Love, love, love, love, love" and
"I'm all about the loving,"
her favorite things.)
"Not yet, but
you know them."
More dope and drink.
We all go home

Sunday: Sunday is my
I work alone;
I control the store
I control the music
Sundays are a lot of
fun; good times yes.
Work is done and
I go home, eat, and coffee
where I run into
Jesus and Israel, talking
scripts, and Jen, Jill, Bria
show up. The girls leave, and
Jesus, Israel, and I hang out and shoot the
for an hour or so.
I go home, pack my shit up
for another week at school
and call up Robyn.
Go over there, drink and smoke dope
with Paul, Robyn, and Mike.
Conversations galore
and I wait to sober up enough
and drive to the city.
I get to my apartment
around 3:30 in the
morning and crash
Tomorrow starts
the rest of the week
only to moebius
into another.



A Night At The Beach
waves crippling white
in solace
dancing fingertips
as fists slap
the beach
silhouettes glide
upon caps
tip toe to toe
down the crest
the junior wrinkles
hinting at the shore.

Door Jamb
I feel very much not,
like death,
the world collapsed outside the door
holding an invitation
that never arrived,
harnessing guilt with a brown-eyed smile
and frayed reigns three miles gone.
To lose what you never had,
knew you could never have,
shouldn't be
as the cost of having had.
Yet as the fall slips down the stairs,
the bruises obfuscate reality
with a blur of sound
and a cacophonous view,
erasing the old truth.

Surrounding dust and debris
light filters cracks
in broken waves burning the clear
disgust tastes the skin
where the tongue shouldn't have slipped;
little vindictive games
with hearts as toys
and emotions the tiny parts
that choke the child inside.

And on the other side of the wall
is the adult that knows better
the connections cut free
and the arteries dangle
waiting to be cauterized;
the loss will feel the better
in the end
rather than dragging the coma out,
healing the tart

I will continue to close the door
and if royalty's stiff little finger,
demanding attention still,
gets crushed in-between,
a tear will not fall
because they have all already been stolen
and my sympathy has nothing left
to regret.



just stepped outside to fix the crave,
lit up another smoke
and saw a rainbow which
broke open another craving
to get away from here.
through the light rain aftermath
the rainbow skulked behind the clouds
peaking around and through the holes
leaving vivid traces of its failing fight
to shine through and remain solid
by itself,
to stand in its own spotlight
but it needs everything else
just to exist;
and I remembered driving up 29
some time ago (spring to be exact)
when I was back home in the place,
the surroundings I grew up in
and we, one of my best friends and I,
were driving, where I don't remember,
just driving to get somewhere
better than where we left
and she noticed a rainbow
and then another, two rainbows
one on top of the other
two of the most vibrant
brilliant rainbows we had ever seen
chasing each other as they chased us
all the way up the valley
until we came to our nowhere
and the rainbows ran on
leaving us in the painted tail of their glow;
and now my smoke is burnt down
and finished and the rainbow
is losing to the clouds
and disappears behind the new
falling in over the old
erasing my reminder of home
bringing me back to the now
and I know that there will be
more rainbows in the future
but I don't know if there will be any more
to remind me of what once was
and can probably never be resurrected,
but the memories are still there
and we are now separated by
six thousand miles and nine months
of schools in our new little worlds
which will end and drop us back into
the old routines of a newer what was,
continuing our friendship
until the day we die
with our individual and together lives
gliding proudly into the future
on the skid marks of our own rainbow.



Placing wooden blocks in systematic randomness, spelling
        out the visions of
chasing shadows of present's past, murky clear in its
        obtrusive absolutes.
Phone calls from the dead in the middle of the night,
        messages erased
for fear of guilt's heavy handed lashes, tearing from
        the inside.
Captions read like God's apocalypse in Satan's handwriting,
        quiet attention
payed blindly as the dead man walks, concerning themselves
        like plastic.
Ignorance is the mindkiller for those afraid, afraid to
        wake up,
to realize the consequences of the seething wound that
        waits ahead.

Future's Promise (Taken For Granted)
Beneath the black horizon, the oil slick trail
and contaminated stench of the drunken fuck,
slithering after anything with two legs and a
cunt that's willing to give the beer drenched time of
day away, winds itself around the excluded victims,

forcing them into their nauseated corners, left
with nothing else but to hide their head in
shame and ponder where it will end, burdened with
their own muddled thoughts drowning them to
sleep in their tears, but he doesn't care as long as

something spreads itself open to receive his selfish
load, rolling over and leaving the irresponsible other
to sober up and realize the nascent hell she has
grafted from insecure fallacies and inane desires
of the quick fuck, slammed and delivered into the

fading subconscious, reliving the violent orgasm handed
in the veiled hatred of immature actions and intoxicated
promises with free drinks to raise the spirits and
lower the guard, leaving me to question, is what's
left worth the effort to save.

Hypothetical (Negative)
I clenched my teeth in anticipation,
then cracked a smile
the size of your fist.