Gab

the whole "sucking

at guitar and making

quirky music" thing

should be left to trained

professionals with real

mental ailments

Painting of a Headache

a black canvas
fluorescent lights
it's unatural that
something would
be so cold
and bright

Read This at my Funeral and If There are Children Present Cover Their Ears so They Never Know the Beauty they Will Most Likely Miss Out On

I caught the tail end of a great generation.

Aside from all the iPod nano smart car
bull shit, I shook hands with the last
remaining good hearted people to
inherit the American dream and all
of the wonderful nightmares it will
bestow upon our Grandchildren.

I met steel workers, writers, artists, plumbers
and in my later years the opera crowd.

I read books, magazine, poetry, the Bible
and graffiti on city walls.

I played rummy, black jack, yahtzee, and
even REAL solitaire.

I drank beer, wine, soda, rum, and most
notably the best whiskey man has to offer.

I met the blue collar worker, read the wino
genius, and most importantly equally respected
them both.

I loved women, real women like Marilyn
Monroe, Jane Morgan, Kim Gordan, Audrey
Hepburn and every female with a pretty
face that ever smoked cigarettes and
used what their Mother gave them.

I loved God, my country, other countries, and
understood the boundaries of my upbringing.

I hope the world notices the peculiarity of my
circumstances. My mind was exposed to so
many amazing human traits. Never complain,
and never underestimate the importance of
everything you have ever witnessed.

Thank you.
I love you.
Goodbye.
In that specific order.


- Scotty Alexander Leitch (1986-2???)

what else in this room reminds me of you?

the carpet, its shitty
the curtains, they're pretty
the cabinets they're shaped
in an obtuse way


this table, it's flat
the mice as they chat
the TV stares at me
with its nuclear rays


the coffee, so warm
the fire, unborn
the whiskey it heals
when she makes me cry


the ceiling so tall
my cell phone; no calls
the smell of today
as it passes me by

dear aunt Ginny
thank you for
the Christmas
card.
if I could I'd
hug you and
tell you that
I love you and
Jesus loves you
and that the
ten bucks you
gave me would
best be spent
at a diner
on coffee for
the two of us
and how your
explanations
of what life is
and isn't is worth
much more than
ten thousand
cents and
even more than
the efforts of some
pour Columbian
child

Conversations with a Zipper on Christmas

Christmas is today just as
yesterday wasn't Christmas
just as tomorrow isn't the
Fourth of July or Easter.

And on Christmas I saw
my aunt and all she could
say was how skinny I was
and how skinny my girlfriend
was.

"Any thinner and you'll
be a zipper," she said.

Whatever the fuck that
means?

And I tried to explain to all
4'2 180 pounds of her that
maybe we are the norm and
she should make friends with
a nice treadmill or some guy
who works at that rock climbing
village next to the mall.

I do a lot of explaining
in my head.

It's not important to remember
that my stomach ached while
writing this at 6 pm Christmas
day.

"Next person that puts me on
trial for accusations of being
too skinny I'm gonna punch
em' in the gut," I thought.
Rather, I explained.

everyting in this poem is the true and i won't tell anyone

my uncle
impregnated his
cousin when he
was 12

I cry
at least
once a
week

I don't
love my
mom or
her whispers

tomorrow
is
Christmas
eve

I really
do believe
in
a savior

no one in
my family
will ever
read my poetry