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Introduction

Remember when skateboarding was a crime?

We weren’t the first to do any of it, but we were the last to do it for the right reasons.
We were the skaters, wavers, freaks, faggots, punks, goths, deathrockers, outsiders, and losers. We were punched, shoved, pushed, kicked, judged, beat up, beat down, alienated, and humiliated. In other words we were teenagers.

But more than that, we were the teenagers who didn’t fit in. We chose to walk the halls of our schools and the streets of our towns as outcasts. We didn’t know it at the time, but our little rebellions were part of something bigger. . . .

The Freak Table takes us back to a time when skateboarding was a crime, when wearing a Mohawk didn’t get you the girl, and when standing out from the norm meant constantly standing up for what you believed in.

We stood up for the very minority we created . . . Us.

that secret room

There’s a staircase I haven’t seen before
She’s upstairs somewhere in that secret room
Watching
Looking down
Noises
Music
Life
Paths cross
Voices won’t cease
And I still can’t find her
Somewhere off in that secret room
Behind the controls
Somewhere in the distance
The mood will change
The tempo
But not the memories
The lust
The loss
She’s up there somewhere
In that secret room

Medicine from a Machine

Taking medicine from a machine
Plastic people plastic times
We’ll go west, we’ll find them in their homes
Sucking on life, sucking on souls
Behind greenery of luxury
Behind the masks of stature
Drawing blood from their world
Taking medicine from a machine

9/25/2009 By Scott Gustin

For Poem of the Week, I’d like to share something from friend and writer Scott Gustin. I’m very fond of it.

9/25/2009

Hammer of youth falls

Upon sun drenched skin

As the fancies of idols

Erode and blister

The small hand reaching out

Clenches fist and inhales

Fermented fruits long littered to Earth

Faint memory of blossomed limb

Upon desolate road

Among etched granite stone

Below cracked timber of long silent mine

On Milky Way spattered nights

The creep of time

And the pondering mind

Last year’s draught of dust

To sooth not but thistle

Beneath pale slivered moon

Night quenches glow

To pound this season’s crop to pulp

So one may not thirst long

To thirst for not

Now these bones shall lie

Where gavels are crushed

Beneath hoof or foot

Where the right hand

May caress the horn

And bedtime myths

Are swept upon restless sea

Upon these pages pool ink night

And not is but a tale

Woven from will

That one might set foot

Upon not trail

But beat a path as thou shall

Taking off into sunset

Taking off into the sunset
I can’t think of a more fitting flight
To say goodbye
To lay a friend to ground
To walk over a once sacred place
And through memories of younger days
Gold, orange, and blue below
The air will chill soon
The life will grow a little more weary
And hopefully a little more wise
On route to the homeland
To say goodbye to a friend
To say goodbye to an era
We place him in the ground tomorrow
We’ll take part of him with us
wherever we go next
Taking off into sunsets or sunrise

The Dirty Mind Weak

the dirty mind weak
the lost
the way we see things
the way things are presented to us

the dirty mind weak
it brews in my head
thoughts as poisons act like agents
clutter cloud like mind
fog on thoughts
drowning again
in this
in you
it’s what we have all become

the dirty mind weak
contained within me
I can’t eject
how I have tried
purge this poison
rush from these times

times where man’s mind is in the black
weak
struggling for control
make those images burn away
flash away from us

be gone
be gone
the dirty mind is weak