Previous Feature: Scott Wozniak

Scott Wozniak is a member of the Rogue Poetry Slam of Ashland, OR, and an award-winning spoken word artist. His “The Acoustic Tongue Sessions,” which weaves together poetry and music into one cohesive storyline, has been performed from NYC to Chicago. A member of The Willamette Writers, his poetry has appeared online at Carcinogenic Poetry and Red Fez, and in print at The Daily Tidings. To learn more, please visit Scott’s about.me site, or contact him at scott.wozniak@yahoo.com

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A Shattered Victory Song

Let’s start riots
in sleeping streets,
forcing life
to be wide awake,
then sing a song
of shattered glass
in police force faces.

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He Who Falls Victim 

I keep tripping on the cracks
of the same sidewalks,
as I bend over to pick up pieces
of life that I’ve left scattered
by the cigarette butts in the gutter,
knowing I’m just another casualty
stumbling through this god forsaken city.

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Dead Broke

Death sits on the sidewalk
dressed in layers of filth and loss,
begging for change.
No one stops to notice,
except me.  But, I’m too busy
chasing chivaDeath’s cheap catalyst
from the pockets of Mexicans
to truly give a shit, either.

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This is My Lost Paradise

When you’ve got no place to go,
possessing secret betrayals of self
while roaming streets and alleyways,
your mind seems to wander
much further than your body
could ever possibly dream of going.

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Spare Change For Flight 

Help me pull poetry out
of the gutter we’re hiding in,
and take it for a walk
around the block, then stop
at the bodega on the corner
where we can spare change
to buy wallpaper paste, and
plaster its bones to the sky.

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Aerosol Assault

Take back city streets
by overrunning them
with mafia hits of artistry.
The world is your museum,
so, tag it up with no hesitation.
Your murals are a manifestation
of creative dissidence in action.

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Steel Shell Skin

Sometimes I feel like
the fire hydrant
at the end of the street
that gets pissed on
by every flea infested mutt
in this cracked out wasteland,
my steel shell skin
rusting with foul ammonia.

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A Revolutionary Prayer

May the mad, searching,
frantic freaks of idle time
forcing the questions
that need to be shouted
out onto the pavement
find those answers that
we’ve all been looking past.

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