Scott the bartender poet


Went to Cincinnati recently. The Queen City welcomed a joker like me. I took my friend Mosquito with. It was just for one night. It was to meet a girl I know there, Shay.

I didn’t take Mosquito to see Shay, whom I met at this bar called The Blind Pig. I had a couple craft beers that were local. I forget what Shay had, other than her cute lips, black curls and long legs.

If things had gone with Shay the way I wanted them too, I probably would not have ended up at Madonna’s Bar & Grill, some watering hole downtown.

I had a brilliant egg sandwich thing. And I was treated to brilliant, gritty poetry by Scott the gruff bartender. What a fuckin’ poet and magician at this dive joint. Pouring beers and reading his poems in between dealing with local hooligans in the establishment.

I told Scott he needs to have a one-man show. Just him behind a bar reading poetry. But wait. Not a one man show. Every so often a customer would come in and sit down and drink and have a few words with Scott. When Scott isn’t doing his poetry directly to the audience he can be reading it to the customer.

The customers can include men, women, cool birds or assholes. Scott will know how to deal with them. He dealt with shit when I was there.

I wish I can take Scott around to be my personal bartender, pouring pints and cussing out his poetic work.

He deals with shit and writes the shit. Good shit.