Mark Scott

Mark Scott is a recent graduate of the Jazz Studies program at the University of North Texas. He enjoys writing and is grateful to have the opportunity to share his writings with others.

To be screwed between the body and the capsule:

to be altogether foregone—quantumnal

mornings that shrink beneath the moon’s

scrutiny: a hefty log thrown into a chipper 


some place where birds chirp the worms up

and every day is cold, the rest of the universe 

lost in an aimless thought, then captivated, 

suddenly made aware of the jutted wood


perforating its abdomen, its cascading into softer,

fractal pieces, the time it ceases—drifting 

further into the annals of last pages, autopsy 

reports, postcards, report cards, passports, fore-


words and certificates of birth, playgrounds; the capsule 

at hand, under the tongue: tugged 

by the mind, the liver, bladder; helping some-

body, the body digests—mulling through


what’s put into it, around it, whether it 

is good, the something shoved into something 

else longed for, or chastised, following the aimless 

screw—between the leaf and the shoe, a moment 


and another moment—running for mother’s

frantic hand a flag in the wind 

as the train runs faster than the air

that dries your eyes—between a life


and another life—the carpet,

the ottoman, or merely between.