Troy Schoultz photo
photo by Tina Burlingame

CONTACT

mrscamp@yahoo.com

105 East 3rd Street, Apt. 4
Marshfield, WI 54449
(715) 207-0248

myspace.com/troyschoultz

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Troy Schoultz
Marshfield, Wisconsin

BIO

Troy Schoultz's work has appeared in The Seattle Review, Rattle, Fish Drum, Slipstream, and several others in the U.S. and U.K. His column about Wisconsin small city life “Hub City Living” appears weekly in the Marshfield News-Herald.

Troy is a freelance writer, community theatre actor, security officer and sometimes substitute teacher. He has twice been a guest panelist for the Creative Writing Festival at the University of Wisconsin - Whitewater. His inspirations include thunderstorms, garage rock, forgotten cemeteries, abandoned factory buildings and farmhouses, found objects, old men crying in taverns before noon, the number five, and Wisconsin folklore.

"Troy Schoultz's poetry powerfully captures the tragedy and pathos of Midwestern life. His naturalistic world is as dark as Sherwood Anderson's woods. The poet inhabits a space where 'death stalked rural Wisconsin like a wounded suitor.' The poet, through powerful images, is able to make the reader face mortality. Once we face our fragility, we begin to feel compassion, to feel that we can find our way through. Like Robert Frost, truth can guide us out of the woods and "into the clearing," stated Doug Flaherty, Wisconsin Commended Poet and author of Good Thief Come Home.

PUBLICATIONS

Good Friday, Tamafyhr Mountain Poetry, 2005
A Field of Bonfires Sings, Wolf Angel Press, 1999

All chapbooks available directly from author. Contact via email.

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BOOKINGS

2008

    POEM

TACKLING SHOPLIFTERS

Pushing shopping carts in the snow,
a thermos of schnapps hidden
from the managers in the parcel pick-up area.
It was thirty below, wind chill inclusion.
This is how
I celebrated the death of the 1980’s,
working part-time, tackling shoplifters
no younger or poorer than I.
Singing to myself in the backroom,
feeling as lost as a chance
with a drunken dream girl
who had no chance
to find me again
once the cops closed the party down.
We drank together, all us 24-hour lost souls,
made mix tape soundtracks
of the hours and days we’d kill,
those promises spilling off beer-heavy tongues,
“You should move on, college boy,
wasting your life in frozen food aisles…”
With box cutter knives, hoping the ‘90’s
and our bad luck would finally
pay off in some dim way.
That night, a rented motel room,
a bathtub of ice and bottles,
captured and lost somewhere on video.
We held on to our lives
like icicle-adorned handles of shopping carts
outside during the last day of December
or maybe the ankles of a panicked kid
falling face first on hard tile
broke and desperate for a pack of Malboro Lights.

Previously published in Pulsar (U.K.)

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