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Scott C. Holstad Books

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Cells

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Binge

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Junction City

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Shrapnel

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Places

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Street Poems

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“When I turned 15, my father let me drive our old ’66 Chevy Impala and I was finally able to get a “real” job – at a fast-food restaurant. Where else at that age? I never stopped working. For most of my life, I worked a good 15-20 hours a day, for years, and I made the mistake of thinking I was damn near invincible, only to eventually find out I wasn’t.”

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Author:Scott C. Holstad
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“They gave me killer pills that knocked me on my ass for a few hours at least so I wouldn’t have to hear the godawful screaming. I’m exhausted and my blood boils and there’s nothing I can do. There was another life that seems so long ago and I try to reconstruct images, events, people, all just dreams tethered to the knife in my soul. This is my cross, my dagger, my napalm, my dance of the dead…”

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Book:Cells
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“Orange fluff ball, Rocky is an 18-pound marvel of love, so fluffy, he looks like he’s 26 pounds. He scares the local dogs just by sitting and staring at them. Rocky’s there for me when I get home, purrs when he wants to, leads me to the food bowl when he needs to, licks me in an attempt to heal my wounds, loves cellophane, red ribbons, left over chicken. Rocky, my best friend, is my orange fluff ball, and I wish I could share him with the world. -- Scott C. Holstad, Northern Stars Magazine (2004)”

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Author:Scott C. Holstad
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“i allowed you to destroy me, my self-confidence, my ego, my identity as a human being and as a man. for years i was a shadow of my former self. the pain you caused was brutal and intense but i have a new life and a new incarnation and you’re hardly worth thinking about anymore and being free at last of your clutches, I have a new world to look forward to.”

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Book:Junction City
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“As children, we played cowboys and Indians through the fields and forests, looking for foes as though being set upon was the worst we’d face. As children we found horseshoes, dusty hidden treasures buried in dirt, and we’d take them home and hang them on our walls alongside our Farrah and football posters. Innately we knew that someday we’d grow out of this, so mornings and afternoons we’d carry on, content, a real word in our small vocabulary.”

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Author:Scott C. Holstad
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“the words on the paper im readin are blarin out at me loud an angrylike tellin me there's no end to the recession theres no jobs theres no peace theres no hope man an people wonder why i do what i do? an bums are bummin lights from me and babies are squintin up at me an my coffee is rupturing my gut bitterlike an i guess the world is kinda like the coffee sometimes – ill be suffering thru both tomorrow.”

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Author:Scott C. Holstad
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“well it’s almost noon and i've done nothing all day, all my great plans shot to hell, of getting up at 7 and writing 3 new poems 1 new story 5 letters of sending out submissions to 4 new magazines and making several phone calls all by noon – so i'll just keep drinking coffee and reading from the stack of books on my kitchen table and maybe i'll go catch a flick and maybe just maybe i'll get half as much done tomorrow.”

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Book:Junction City
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“There’s this space in our lives that we attempt to fill with more space and the nothingness grows larger while our lives get smaller, a fact we can’t seem to accept very well. So, we take walks and we work and we go to movies and basketball games and church and we Exist in our nothing lives and when we die a speech is made and we are forgotten once again, only more permanently this time.”

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Book:Street Poems
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“The fact that we are still sitting on and depending on technical protocols nearly a half century old is a testament to the genius of those who invented everything from such inventions, protocols and standards like Ethernet to personal computers that were more than just circuit boards for geeks, but actually had small GUI interfaces, as well as connected devices such as a mouse and keyboard.”

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Author:Scott C. Holstad
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“they are a little more solid even in the exquisite nakedness of their existence and they glory in their reality and read music and dance poetry on the sidewalks and in the lavatories of bombed out buildings. we take their words and cup them in our hands and we take their lips and crush them to ourselves and dream the dreams and think of sands and faraway places and wish for death and pray they see IT soon.”

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Book:Industrial Madness
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“Happiness, I decided years ago, is unattainable and I don’t wish to seek it through the usual methods. Peace is a reflection of our souls, leaving me a non-entity. I cry because people want to feel and I join them in their fears and private agonies and I wish for death and pray for life and hope to God that God even gives a shit and before I die and receive my judgment I just want to help 1 person FEEL, to know what it is to be alive and to ease their suffering as only a tormented soul can.”

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Book:Industrial Madness
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