55 Scott Wade – Selected Poetry

Scott Wade is in his final term as an English major at IU East.  These poems were written for Dr. Brodeur’s poetry courses.  Professor Brian Brodeur notes, “Scott is an exceptionally visceral writer of poems unafraid of confronting the most difficult and challenging subjects, including the physical disabilities that have rendered Scott wheelchair-bound. He writes with passion, intelligence, and imagination in poems that are startling, fresh, and even, occasionally, funny.

Meth-Mouth Preacher Meets Fentanyl Jesus

                                     Shuffles into the street, dead man walking.

                                    Mouth thrush white, his body more scabs than skin.

                                    Throwing open skeletal arms as if,

                                    imploring an uncaring sky to see,

                                    to witness his impending demise.

                                    The white mouth gapes excruciatingly,

“REPENT”!

“The end is near; the Holy Land will RISE!”

“HE will be here, and this will all be DONE!”

“I am here, been here since Tuesday ‘fore last.”

Second shuffler, one foot in the grave.

                                     Eyes of a corpse, seeing everything and

                                     nothing. Bloody mucus dribbles over

                                     crusted lips. His body, a roadmap of

                                     agony.

“I’ve been to heaven three times brother.

Caught the old Narcan express back to earth.

First time didn’t count. Second time was mine.

Third time though, that was for everybody.”

Sonnet to my Wheelchair

My constant companion, day after day.

Without me, you are nothing, without you,

I am crawling. Unforgiving rubber,

my skin is yours. Cold curves, steely embrace.

First thing they see, all they ever notice.

My eyes are up here, ablebody fucks.

Fascinated by my wheels, watch me crawl.

I was born for the ground, my domain.

Roll or crawl, the only goddamn option.

I would abandon you in a heartbeat.

Locate a new means of self-propulsion.

Something that does not distort my shadow.

Mad delusions of a jaded cripple.

Goddamn fucking wheelchair, you complete me.

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“Poor little tink tink”- Kat Williams

A legless man

contemplates an

octopus pondering

a thunderstorm

sliding stumps first

into crip poetics

space shuttle legs

poor little

tink tink

scalpel wishes

bone-saw dreams

pain is purple

anguish smells

of iodine

the tree

knows

it has been cut

but the grass

cackles

amputations in shades

of green and purple

boil the water

too late for

the babies

phenol for all