Welcome, dear artist, step into the light—
Paint on your pleasure, make your grin tight.
The crowd here is eager, the clapping is loud,
But only for those who have clapped for the crowd.

Powder your cheeks with engagement and grace,
Lace up your lips in reciprocal praise.
A bow for a bow, a sigh for a sigh,
Wink at the watchers or wither and die.

Here in the House where the hollow hands meet,
The loveliest dancers must stay on their feet.
A round of applause is a token to spend,
But spend it too slowly, and you’ll find it ends.

The jesters all juggle, the poets all moan,
The painters trade colors but none of their own.
Each stroke, each verse, each desperate tune,
Not meant to be felt—just meant to be hewn.

For love is a fiction, and merit a game,
A trick of the trade, a conjuring name.
So curtsy, dear artist, and play your part—
For silence here is the end of art.

There is something
in the early morning air
that fills my lungs with
a familiar loneliness
as the dull pain
behind my eyes
makes the stars
look like tiny tears
as the moon shakes
the nightmares from
its restless mind
I close the book
on yesterday
I wrestle with
this pen and paper
as the background
radio preachers
love and forgiveness
there is a moment
when the eyes close
and the mind opens up
there is a moment when
I see her smile I almost  
feel her embrace
within a second
she is gone …
Clay.M

I rest.
To not wake.

I know it's easier said than done,
But maybe instead of deporting children with brain cancer to Mexico to die
And depriving the depressed and suicidal meds
We just

Don't?

Instead of misgendering Trans people's passports
And denying people health care
We just

Love?

Could we possibly
Not encourage ******
And not cut down millions of trees in forests and parks
But just

Not ****?

I don't know,
Just a dream I guess

Sad reflections from
donated dreams.
Charity's
fallen embers.
Like a high UV index
they burn right into
your skin.
Freckling
your thoughts with a bit of compromise.

Close your eyes
to the possibility
inertia
has made itself at home.
You'll feel it, feel it
right to the bone.
But you crossed that bridge
long ago.
In the time of
tranquil misgivings.
You gave consent to
sin by offering up
your sons and daughters.
Drowning them
in the shallow end of dissipated water.

Sing hymns
all you like.
Piety
is not for sale.
And the angel light
that hits the wall
is not in the shape of Mary.
Evil always figures into
these things.
Don't you know? Heat rises. Blood falls.

So burn your prayers
on a stick. Roast them
in the campfire. You'll never turn
to God until you lie
dying. Broken and heaving.
Asking for forgiveness.
Which a man of cloth
will grant.
Such a charmed life to leave.

Only it's a cheat.
A spoonful
of circumvention.
Making you feel
warm and clever
as you bleed out. Regrettably,
your vacuous heart
sailed off on the Greta Garbo
and mortgaged
your future for such marquee.
Banking on the
here and now.
From this there can be no redemption.

My tongue I'll hold back
             I'll not allow another word
            to be spoken--for both our sake-
            silence might offer some comfort -

             a million words we've said
             in the past--forward and backward
             how futile they have all demonstrated
            and our relationship has become so absurd

            this is the right time for me
             to leave--ere it were too late
             it will free us to love again
             and life's remaining days to celebrate