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2.7k · Apr 2018
The Favored Lie
JS Clark Apr 2018
Beware the bitter idiot--
That fellow with the sour
Cankered by disillusion,
And feelings of
Left behind.

So life may not be everything
As planned--
It does, after all, arrive in
Installments called the day.
One of these is enough to try
    To understand,
One enough for this thin
Vessel of stardust clay.

His voice is but a drone,
Nothing but rancor and filth
    Ride upon his tongue.
Complaint the engine of his
The wormwood ballad of
Pitiful woe he sings and has
    Ever sung.

He will not be mistaken,
For the street tough is at his
    Very core.
He will not allow to awaken
The malleable man of his
    Youth and yore.

And so this fellow who has
Shut his soul off,
Stands in front of his mirror and cries.
He's too proud to unhand the
Lance of the scoff--
Boldness is his favorite lie.
1.8k · May 2017
JS Clark May 2017
Your love wakes my soul,
Just as the Spring wakes the Earth,
Both tickle the core.
JS Clark May 2017
A continent's scout
That once touched Pacific sands,
Has on the Natchez Trace
Taken his life at Grinder's Stand.

Such the news the Chickasaw
Agent bore
Telling President Jefferson
The great scout Meriwether Lewis
Is no more.

Five years prior, you were commissioned
To a quest,
Mr. Jefferson sending you forth
To explore the core of a new nation's
Enigmatic west.

The Mandan's song still warbles
In your ears,
While the mighty Missouri's current
Still rushes through your tears.

And now, on a porch of a tavern
In west Tennessee,
You look back in that direction
That has ever seduced thee--

You cannot seem to shake him--
That black dog of lassitude--
That murderous hell-hound what has
Shadowed you across majestic
American longitudes.

His image is there, in the polish
Of your piece
With every throb of your head
His moan ebbs at your peace.

During the journey, Clark was always
There to help stay the hound...
Knew how to handle him,
Knew how to keep him bound.

Perhaps that is why you are looking west
This time around.
Not for something new,
That, you have found.

No, you are simply looking yonder for
Someone to **** this **** hound.
It is thought by some historians and scholars that Meriwether Lewis had Bipolar Disorder
1.5k · May 2017
Pure Winds
JS Clark May 2017
Pure winds
Beautiful prairie

Tall grass
Kissing the dew

Mighty fork
Winding tributary

Escorted by grass, fescue

Aged trees
Standing in groves

Greet the fowl of dawn

Talking bison
Muffled tone

Still awaken the merry prairie dog

Lone rider
Haulin' mail across the plains

Headin' west, for Sacramento

Indian fighter
On plains self-same

Will insure this mailman sees no tomorrow
1.2k · May 2017
Red Stick
JS Clark May 2017
Enough is the word.
Media martyr bleeding--
SNAFU Johnny Law.
1.2k · May 2017
Dali & Cooper
JS Clark May 2017
The lightning forks forth
Shoots Up north
Like spindly shafts in
Perfect formation.
Strange synchronization
In Martian formalization--
Grasped in nightmarish,
Garish mitts of particular
Deviant sensations...

Little Alice enters her Wonderland,
Not by the rabbit’s hole--
Rather a guillotine’s hand...
Her Wonderland;
This dreamscape quicksand--
With snakes writhing; convulsing  on lurid
Inferno bandstands,
Pushing the limits of your understand--
With preposterous and impossible socks;
Technically causing bruising on acid brains.

Meanwhile The Martian walks the streets
Of the Big Apple in
A deep diver’s suit,
Picking along his way, low hanging and
Chromium laden passion fruit...

And Alice, she like what she sees.
She likes the alien’s helicopter breeze--
She’s all about melting clocks draped upon
Bristlecone Pine trees--
And she’s going to fly into the mouth of the
Martian’s galactic lion, and **** on it’s liver.
722 · May 2017
Cookies and Milk
JS Clark May 2017
Cookies and milk,
The allure drew me in.
As I opened the door on
That warm, Spring day,
The fresh scent of home baked
Raisin oatmeal cookies filled
The air.

Aunt Charlotte
Welcomed me in
With open arms
And a wonderful smile
That nothing can compare.

Just an ordinary recipe
With no special ingredients,
Made with love and great
Aunt Charlotte and me--
Oh! What a pair.
My father wrote this poem...
I fell in love with it the instant I read it...
644 · May 2017
Love's Precipice
JS Clark May 2017
Love's precipice edge,
Both daunting and inviting--
Beckons the redwood.
495 · May 2017
There Sits Athena Weeping
JS Clark May 2017
I’ve seen nothing but shallow all my days.
Have heard much railing of men against God.
Wisdom weeps as for the train she awaits.

Of this world--yes the same that's all a stage--
Hypocrites be kings! Their offspring hug fraud.
I’ve seen nothing but shallow all my days.

The preacher man in this country now begs.
Begging for one to fund the work of God--
Wisdom weeps as for the train she awaits.

The practical man speaks riddles in waves,
These disappear upon my wink and nod.
I’ve seen nothing but shallow all my days.

I want to rant against my neighbor--rave!
The unreasonable, I cheer--I laud--
Wisdom weeps as for the train she awaits.

So the solution is without delay,
Big Cadillacs and grasping at straws.
I’ve seen nothing but shallow all my days.
Wisdom weeps as for her train she awaits.
459 · May 2017
The Myth of Amherst
JS Clark May 2017
I sit down with the Myth of Amherst
And soon troubles and worries
I forget.

I look to see if her verse still breathes
And find with hearty satisfaction
They do still yet.

I entwine myself in her arrangements
Enigmatic and she kindly takes
My hand…
She leads me through gardens of
Imagination replete with untitled topiary
And genius meter.

Where I encountered first
The Myth of Amherst,
I'm not exactly sure.
Her words--canteens of obscure mysts
To slake an interested thirst.
450 · May 2017
A Sam Spade Kind of Day
JS Clark May 2017
I wake up on a cool December morning,
Look at the clock which says five 'til eight.
However, it's still as dark as it was two hours prior--
That's when I knew it was a Sam *****
Kind of day.

Sleepy drizzle cast a steely sheen on
The street; while bustling cars within it played.
I just turned over and went back to sleep,
Perhaps feeling a bit lazier than ol' Mister *****.

A couple of hours later I'm preparing for
A lunch appointment,
Part of social dues I suppose I must pay;
The waitress at the restaurant says she likes
My coat and hat,
Of course, I tell her, well, you know,
It's just a Sam ***** kind of day.

Amidst the heavy mist I go to the store without a list
Only knowing that a Christmas desire must be assuaged.
Chocolate is what's required and to this end I retired;
That and an Americano on this
Sam ***** kind of Day.
385 · Apr 2017
Hip Hop Dying?
JS Clark Apr 2017
The gate is closed
I’m on the side of the locked in.
We have a sister, Hip Hop, and she’s dying;
To whom do we owe this sin?

Born in the late 70’s, the Bronx, the 1520,
She, in time, enamored a planet.
Tickling radios with her rhythms and rhymes--
She sends the mainstream into a panic.

But the mainstream is a blob,
Like the amoeba seeking to consume.
Stunned, at first, by my sister’s ribald glory,
It sought to place her in a commercial tomb.

We, the Underground, repel the popular--
The blob has locked tight this gate of the fresh.
Seekin’ to cheapen Hip Hop’s life valve,
Popularity is an Underground’s death.

Time was, Hip Hop was the ****.
Now, thanks to the blob, she’s nothin’ but.
Good news though, she’s not all dead,
Even now she’s being revived from a wholesale rut.

The streets are calling her back;
The Underground is stirring once more,
Our sister will breathe fresh again--
And render the blob forlorn.
368 · May 2017
JS Clark May 2017
I float among an ether,
As we all do I suppose--
An ether of numbers,
A zeitgeist of digital woe.

Jim Croce once sang
Of his having a name.
A member of this world, yes,
Singing the individual refrain.

The place where I live,
They desire community;
But it’s all contrived--
We’re just dollar signs in unity.

Sadly, we will be nothing more.
We’ve been lulled to a desperate sleep.
This ether of digital zeitgeist
Will not our souls to keep.
JS Clark May 2017
I approach the traffic signal that stands
In its service for guidance
At the intersection
Of Frederick avenue and 10th street.

To my left is the statue of the gallant Pony Express rider,
And just to my right
Entering my field of vision is a
Man of some years.

These years are
Tucked away throughout a
Bent chassis.

And bent he was,
He was one
Who looked as though the labor of ten
Ordinary fellows
Passed across his crooked spine.

He was smoking a cigarette and walking,
Rather shuffling, short, stuttered steps
Southward perhaps to the
Wesley Towers senior living apartments
On the next block,
Or making his way to the
Patterson senior center one block
Further for some
Pitch with some pals.

I had to wonder,
Yet somehow to me
It was known, that this fellow
Walking so slow,
Built this old river city.
359 · Jul 2017
JS Clark Jul 2017
I put the eggs in the water,
I am alone.
I cook them for myself,
I am by myself.

Folks may want to feel a bit sorry for me.
I always wonder why.
There is stark difference in being alone
And being lonely.

I know many know this difference,
These folks know that alone is alone.
I don’t understand the need for
Constant companionship.

I don’t understand the
I don’t understand their sneers and jeers.
Freedom is a fine mistress.

I’ve been in the relationship,
I’ve felt the benefits of the companion.
But there’s something to be said for alone.
Solitude asks for nothing.
355 · Aug 2018
Tour of Duty
JS Clark Aug 2018
Why is the Pentagon so sprawling?
Why should there be so many
It is so I cannot stand or sit
To block entry,
Or proffer peace down
Its miles of corridors.

Why is the Capitol Building
So big?
Why does it seem so regal?
It is so I may grow weary
Climbing its steps
As I try to remind my congressman
To check against those Pentagon evils.

Why is the Supreme Court so imposing?
Instead of a temple, it should be a
Log cabin.
Imagine if it were a little more cozy,
But hey, we like our justice cold,
And perhaps a modicum

Then there’s the White House.
Her walls have seen so much.
From getting burned out by the British,
To sheltering both buffoon and
The latter and former rendering more and More out of touch.

For the brilliant, we have the
Memorials and the shrines.
One of these is simply a great ditch.
The black granite cries with you
As you cry;
A proper reminder of brave sacrifice,
And that the Pentagon can be a *******.
342 · May 2017
The Falcon
JS Clark May 2017
The falcon rises high above the plain.
A man skips stones slow along the lakeshore.
Where is love when needed in times of pain?

How rough to walk the corridors of shame.
Seems as though I can't bear it anymore.
The falcon rises high above the plain.

The locust is damp, there can be no flame.
A mother cries for her children at war.
Where is love when needed in times of pain?

A princess ponders in watching the drain--
Am I truly the one whom he adores?
The falcon rises high above the plain.

Lovers quarrel in fields of sugarcane.
She’s flustered. He thinks it is fields of corn.
Where is love when needed in times of pain?

A man sits distraught, waiting for a train.
All the patches of his quilt have been torn;
The falcon rises high above the plain.
Where is love when needed in times of pain?
334 · May 2017
The Old Hickory
JS Clark May 2017
I look up and see an unnerving gaze
From the Old Man in the Moon.
He’ll witness a man whose life hangs
In the balance, and sure will leave
Him soon.

I’ve seen it before too many times
As these limbs sway in the breeze.
For more than these limbs sway in
The wind on this old hickory.

The horse is slapped and the rope
Goes tight, and another man fights
For air.
He struggles as he dangles with all his might
For that last breath that just isn’t there.

Some people below shake their hands
And boast that justice was done this day--
Still others below shake their heads, say
Nothing and regretfully turn away.

It was the break of dawn one cool
Spring morning in the year of ‘75.
There’s commotion in the forest as
A man is dragged, beaten badly and
Barely alive.

Hands behind his back, he’s thrown on
A horse, and a noose is thrown over his
He looks up at me, the old hickory tree,
But I know he’s as good as dead--
He knows he’s as good as dead--
And they know he’s as good as dead.

As long as I’ll live, I’ll never forget
That morning in ‘75;
When against all odds a man that is
Hanged gets a second chance at life.
He’s cut down by a woman who knows
He is innocent--
And they ride away on a horse called Vengeance
To exact their own punishment,
Avenge the innocent,
And to tip the scales a bit...
321 · May 2017
American Brainstorm
JS Clark May 2017
Is compromise a ***** word
Truth is found in strange pools
Let us be truth explorers
Let us ferret out the corrupt and **** it
Horrible citizenry makes for horrible policy
Recognize your space and value within it
Don’t give me your self help
Simply give of the self
Stay informed fellow Americans, fellow countrymen
Don’t let the Republic suffocate amid pure democracy
Ratchet the brainstorm
Make the connection in the middle when building the tunnel
Is middle a ***** word
I’m stymied at the junction of ambition and lethargy
Occluded at the crossroads of the gospel and the blues
I’ll simply take the fork Yogi
I still want simple solutions to complex problems
The mindless maintenance of the Trump Bulldozer being one
Hillary Clinton being another
The time has come for the third party to rise again
Resurrect the Bull Moose
JS Clark May 2017
It seems like an odd duality really, in regards to time. Memory can do this. I’m taken back to when I was a boy sitting on my Grandparent’s front porch on Jules Street; so many years ago, but just yesterday.
My Grandpa sits on this porch and watches a world go by. He has, at this time, roughly sixty-five years of age coursing through his soul. Roughly four of those years were spent in a war overseas. Perhaps the greatest of all wars--World War II. This global conflict he spent in the European theater as he and his buddies, acquaintances, and guys he didn’t much care for, fought as Americans and as Allies in unity against a madman claiming Christ on his side.

We’d be sitting there, playing “This Car’s Mine”, a game this little boy was sure a product if his Grandfather’s genius. Occasionally, I’d point at a car I especially thought boss, and he’d reprimand me for the gesture. “Don’t be doin’ that,” he’d say sternly. Being a little boy, such speech glanced off of me in immature bewilderment. The car game would get old and some time would pass in silence. My attention would be drawn to the busyness of some ant hill, or wasps tending to their little mud or paper homes. Eventually, the question would come:  “Grandpa, what did you do in the war?”
Not looking at me, he’d respond something like, “Oh, fought Germans mostly.” I didn’t know much about the great war at that age, but I knew there was D-Day, and had heard of something called Battle of the Bulge. These are battles I had either heard about on television, or read about in the encyclopedia. Never had I heard about them first hand from my Grandfather. Whenever asked about the great and terrible World War II, all he ever gave in response were vagueries.

But there was always the stare. There were the numerous, indeed countless times when, not distracted by wasps, ants, or cars, that this little boy would catch a shiver rifle through his Grandfather’s world weary frame, or see a wince disfigure his face locked in tight on that middle distant stare. Of course, nothing was thought of it then. That little boy was a typical one. But the odd duality serves for perception. Now this boy who grew into a man with roughly 40 years coursing through his soul sees those shivers, those winces from what seems as yesterday and perceives them as the coldest **** nights ever spent in a supply strapped forest in the middle of a French winter; or the times he dove for cover trying to not be ripped to shreds from shrapnel of an incoming mortar shell or enemy rifle fire; or the time he took some kind of hit to his face which earned him a Purple Heart. I see the middle distant stare, and I see what gravity is all about.

Mulberries ripen,
Let’s play “This Car’s Mine”--
A vet on Jules street.
JS Clark May 2017
As I was talking with the crow
He smiled at me as sometimes
Crows are wont to do

He said you really are a good
Man you know
As bid me to partake of his freshly
Prepared stew

He looked me up and down with
His keen bird's eye
Gave me a wink and said
Son I surmise
That you are far too quick to criticize
All those that pass your way

I said what do you mean
I just mind my own affairs
This relieves me of many burdens

The crow laughed heartily as he took
A bite of his stew
He stated I'm afraid you miss the point
Of what is being said to you
Your kind does not need reminded of their
Sins and their flaws
All that manages to do is slash soul
With self-righteous claws

Take my advice when next your head
Is filled with fault finding words
**** them right there
Too many times they have already
Been heard

The crow reminded me that I was a good
Man tis true
And that he hoped my digestion would
Kindly oblige to his stew
He hoped it to be nourishment
For my soul to renew

I then asked the great black bird
What was in the concoction
For indeed I had to know
Why my dear boy
The corvid replied
It was me the whole time
It was me
The crow
302 · May 2017
JS Clark May 2017

The robust and the rakish--
You were a king among them.
You were the last of a kind of men
That petted the Timber Wolf
And stared into the eyes of the
Grizzly Bear.

That breed of chrome and steel called
Harley-Davidson bore you on your
Perpetual pursuit of the wind.
Now we look forward to hearing your
Voice in the free breeze that enticed you
Time and again.

You were cut from the cloth of Paul Bunyan
And John Henry.
You smiled at the arduous, the laborious, and
The heavy.

Your eye was as good as the plumbline,
But the plumbline you still used;
Your work in the construction of bridges in
This Missouri River valley was your signature,
A tangible legacy no honest man could deny
Or refuse.

Sleep now, R--- B----, a well
Deserved rest--
For from among the ranks of Crockett and
Boone, you’re Lancelot--
The shining, the best.
JS Clark May 2017
Death rides a Harley,
The past is afraid to follow.
293 · May 2017
JS Clark May 2017
What is it to be human
A sponge
A granite rock face
A basketball
A sunrise
A sunset
An internal combustion engine
A land mine
An a-bomb
A train
An eagle
293 · May 2017
A Sunset Fetching
JS Clark May 2017
I’m rollin’ west toward the downtown;
My eye adjusting to a robe of twilight courtesy of a
Sunset fetching.

Having come from the grocery store,
I drive and think of why I like the summertime twilights:
Of the cicadas singing in muggy treelines--
Of screened in porches with single bulbs--
Of newly caught fish being cleaned in said porches--
Of kids deftly riding skateboards on uneven sidewalks--
Of shadetree mechanics cussing at another raked knuckle as their respective hot rods come together.
Of the lightning bugs as they beacon for their mate to be...

There’s the drag racing out at Osborn on Friday nights.
The fishing on the Missouri and random farm ponds any given evening into night.
The mosquitoes,
The chiggers,
The ticks,
And the bullfrogs…

The summer twilights--
The beauty of a season.
289 · Apr 2017
The Judge
JS Clark Apr 2017
A wicked road winds across lawless lands
West of the Pecos.
Where Texas turns to hell; a lone GTO
Scourges smug asphalt with a big block
Renegade ethos.

She’s runnin’ low on gas,
She’s been runnin’ way too fast--
And she’s burnin’ rich--

But that’s good.

Because in that combustive concoction,
Is reflected the nuts and bolts,
Ball peens, and crescent wrenches
Of a provocative, evocative, tool chest lending to
Precision tuned angst riddled verse.

She’s a flat black bad-*** *****,
An epic among American cars--
A ‘69 Judge--the 400 cubic inch
Ram-Air rhythms riffing redline stuff
From bookstores to bars.

I work a service station on this
Lonely road, in this inferno west of the Pecos.
In the distance, I hear a distinct sound,
The Judge’s 400 big block, roaring with that
Bruisin’ outlaw ethos.

Down this wicked road of the accepted norm
This Judge is soundin’ mighty good,
I know to have the coffee ready,
As I listen to the poetry chanting under the hood.
288 · Feb 2019
The Cold North Wind
JS Clark Feb 2019
I am the cold North Wind.
If I were human, I would be
Labeled a sociopath.
But I’m not.
I’m just cold.
280 · May 2017
Talkin' 2017 DT Blues
JS Clark May 2017
All the hate
The rich, the powerful--
They use it as bait
To disunify us,
The common workin' men
Last time I checked
We're all Americans!

These next four years
What will they bring?
Are you sittin' on your hands
Are you lettin' 'em wring--
Are you letting the fear
Seep into your soul
Remember friend that
God is in control
His throne
His tone
Recompense I see
Maybe not now,
But eventually!

We work in the fight
We fight 'til we win
Guthtrie's sayin' this
All those years back when
We were weatherin' a storm
Called the Great Depression
Now it's 2017 and there's
Another'n 'round the bend.

It's Hurricane Donald
And he's made landfall
Category 5 with a
Promise, a call
To take America back
Make it great once again
All for the sake of
The common labor men.

Don't know bout you
But my back's still sore
I'm always wonderin'
What the rhetoric is for--
For the more things change
The more they stay the same
So we switched up the boss
Is it not the same game?

Uncle Sam's not quick to
Relinquish his grip
His wallet's gotten fat
And he's become used to it.
But I digress, I must conclude
I must look forward
To shift my attiude
And recognize the growing
Pains of this nation young
Work the fight with calloused hand
Rather than cringe with hand wrung.
275 · May 2017
JS Clark May 2017
These birds fly and sing!!
They're announcing love's coming--
They rejoice the seed!
273 · Jun 2017
The Lasso
JS Clark Jun 2017
I move like a whisper among my neighbors.
The lasso grips tight--
I cannot seem to loosen its grip.

My **** makes sounds like a banjo
As it hits the bowlwater.
My mind ever drifts.

So restless my soul since
Once again I maintain the solitary man,
Coming back to what has always been known.

The lasso wants to mercilessly hang on
To memories. I have to move on!
This stallion must find good, green pasture!

I fight the bitterroot of jilt.
I fight the saltiness of heartbreak.
Love has such a powerful lasso…

Love is such a powerful wrangler.
271 · May 2017
JS Clark May 2017
The waterfalls fall,
Cascading down rough rocky--
Love's pool is silent.
267 · May 2017
Love is a Rock Face
JS Clark May 2017
Love is a rock face,
Climbers oft find a toehold--
Until sets the sheer.
265 · Jun 2017
Searching the Search
JS Clark Jun 2017
I don't know what the future holds
What may come my way
I'm at the ready for that which unfolds
I'm happy that I'm loving you today

Today we find ourselves apart
Our flyin rug of love ripped away
Though sad and afflicted is my heart
Hope stands firm in the disarray

Am I foolish to cling to such hope
A question popping up now and then
I reckon it's a healthier kind of cope
Than Jack Daniels, Budweiser and gin

I've searched the search a long time
Raising walls shielding from tempest wrath
Finally find my fancy in year forty-nine
Yet somehow end up back on the forlorn path
255 · May 2017
A Response
JS Clark May 2017
Who is this?
Oh. I wasn't expecting your call.
You weren't expecting much of anything
Were you?
You're such a ****** coward
You won't talk to me face to face.

Before you say anything in defense
Of your miserable self
I must set the record straight.

Without me you would
Not get up mornings.
I'm a huge player in giving
You that urge.
The only reason you work as hard
As you do is because
I whisper there's always
Something better ‘round
The curve.

Your bitterness will make you
Come to an early end.
It’s not my fault you’ve made
Poor decisions up and down the line.
Your scathing rage against me
I will not pretend,
Baffles considering I’ve worked hard
To polish and make you shine.

I'm done speaking with you,
No more, from me, shall you receive
Positive coercion.
If you want to be rid of me, free of me,
Very well…
See how far that gets you.
251 · May 2017
Shakespeare Tickling
JS Clark May 2017
Spectres in windows,
Shakespeare tickles a ******--
Venus does not yawn.
238 · May 2017
I Hear David Bowie Singing
JS Clark May 2017
David Bowie sings,
I feel restless at the cut--
The world being sold.
238 · May 2017
JS Clark May 2017
Ambition...have we met?
It seems we have at some forgotten time.
Once a bulwark of my mind,
How clumsy of me to forget.

Once you were the engine behind my dreams,
The impetus of my intent.
Since last we spoke, my life has careened,
What was once a straight line is now bent.

I have worked these many years at a breakneck pace,
Trying to achieve conclusive and elusive goals.
While you show nothing of mercy or grace,
You maintain silence of your hidden tolls.

My life? Not where I thought it would be.
Encumbered I’ve been with your shackles
Of greed,
Your lust,
Your power,
Your malcontent.
237 · May 2017
JS Clark May 2017
I have been soaring for many years.
As I bore up my wings upon the thermals,
I would ride high above the storms.

I would look across the top of the
Cloud mountain and see nothing
But beautiful, pensive expanse--ever
Proud and joyous to be an eagle.

But I would yearn…
I would yearn for another such as myself
To be gliding across the torrents.

To be looking in the direction of my flight.
To be concerned in finding me--
Even beyond finding her next meal.

I can see far, but not far enough sometimes.
I can't see the whole, and thusly, the whole
Grand orb of time…

But I can see into the expanse--
And the day came--
When I saw her,
When I saw YOU!!!

There!  In the expanse!
Across the top o’ the tempest--
There YOU were!!!

Gliding, soaring, were

Miles away and across--

Our eyes met across the tempests.
227 · May 2017
JS Clark May 2017
The spires are built--
Erected by prideful men.
My pride lies in YOU!!
224 · Apr 2017
Addicted to the Window
JS Clark Apr 2017
The time came for the move.
And I moved.
The upgrade was made from the small studio
To the spacious one-bedroom as apartments go.

I now have before me the worst part of the move in the unpack,
And I discover at the same time what may be the best
Amenity of this new place.

There’s a grand window looking out to the south
Over the rows of parked tenant's cars and beyond.
Not far beyond, mind you, but enough to make one addicted.

Addicted to the window.
I’m addicted to my window and all its goings-on.
My boxes, well, they just simply wait
And look on.
217 · May 2017
My River
JS Clark May 2017
YOUR eyes are the earth!!
YOUR lips are the trees budding--
YOUR hair, my river!!
JS Clark Jul 2017
Oft times I wonder what I should do with myself.
I look off in all four directions at any given time
And there is no direction.

I find myself wandering--in a period of wandering.
What does a man say to himself during such times?
It’ll be okay, things will work themselves out in the end?

There would seem to be little solace in this axiom.
Life is strange.
Like the sickening loop-de-loops on our best roller-coasters.

I type this out on a digital tablet with virtual keyboard
In utter perplexity.
An old soul in fast times…

Tense times,
Shallow times.

My neighbors amidst this age haven’t the patience to see how
Events birthed from hollow promises and hasty decision will work
Themselves out.

Promises from leadership whose god is the U.S. dollar.

We get a logjam of hurried consumerist theoretical practices,
Ruthlessly implemented as some kind of workable
Reality among a conditioned populace.

In the end, the only beneficiary to this manufactured bliss
Is the savvy and rich manure shoveler--that neighbor
Among us who throughout each and every day shovels

The materialistic dung into our throats and fully expects
His fellow neighbors to swallow this **** in expectancy
Of the utopic times to come.

And so the tail teases.
215 · May 2017
Cash Black
JS Clark May 2017
Sitting in Cash black,
Pondering Selby concrete--
I sell Brooklyn Bridge.
191 · May 2017
JS Clark May 2017
The south breeze wafts through,
Goosebumps rise upon her neck--
The breeze is my breath.
190 · Jun 2018
Give Me the Gray Spaces
JS Clark Jun 2018
Give me the gray spaces
Where virtue has chosen
     To hide.
Let me see the nuanced faces
Of human beings and being
Simple and complex sides.

Let me walk the line
That straddles order and
Let me bathe in strange pools.
May my I be trained to truth,
That's found when the waters cool.

I am just a man.
A guy getting by.
I used to have a plan,
Until I realized.
188 · Aug 2018
The Young Man and the Pond
JS Clark Aug 2018
The mantle of dusk
Is being cast upon a heat weary
Northwestern Missouri countryside
As a young man stands upon the banks
Of a pond making casts.

He’s been at this for some time
With little to no luck whatsoever.
His favorite quarry, the largemouth bass,
Has eluded him successfully thus far.

He’s been wandering this pond’s banks
For a coupl’a hours now,
Certainly an eternity when the
Fish aren’t attacking the lure.

The youth knows one can’t catch
The bass just standing in one place,
So he scans the smooth pond surface
For activity.

He gets teased by flopping fish here and There
As they feast upon a mid-summer’s smorgasboard
Of bugs and worms and frogs that chose to Zig
Instead of zag.

He finally spots a place he thinks
Will afford him the greatest chance at Landing that
Largemouth he knows he can catch,
And so he posts up for just a while longer.

He looks to the west and sees
A final sliver of the Sun hug the horizon.
The light is fading fairly quickly, and he’s All but done.
The trek home isn't far, but he has no Lantern
And has had enough of the mosquitoes.

One more cast, he thinks to himself, just One more.
He draws back, flicks his wrist, and lets fly.
He cranks on his faithful Zebco 33
And just as he is to bring in what’s
Always been his lucky beetle spin,


A bass akin to Moby **** himself Explodes
The pane of glass surface and
Devours the lucky lure.

In sheer delight, the young man and bass Begin to fight,
And what a fight this pond monster Provides!
The young man’s line strains, his pole Cranes, yet holds with the thrashing and Convulsions that only a bass can deliver in Its ****** attempts to divorce Itself from The hook.

The young man was prepared for this fish-
He had waited since he first learned to bait A hook for it--
Prepared with the right pound test of line,
The right rod, and the right reel.

The youth lands the prodigious Largemouth
And takes him off the hook.
Wrapped in twilight, there the teen stands,
With at least a six pound bass in hand,
Grinning and looking west at the Sun Goin away.
182 · May 2017
Winter's Cold
JS Clark May 2017
There was Winter's cold,
But I was with YOU my LOVE!!
Grand hibernation!!!
181 · May 2017
Whiskey Falls
JS Clark May 2017
The visceral glides,
High above the whiskey falls--
I'm in the barrel.
181 · Sep 2018
Through the Morning Country
JS Clark Sep 2018
When times get tough, and tensions should ride high;
When one’s hands are lashed and frustration’s sound,
I take a ride through the morning country.

Like a sweet raspberry cream filled fruit pie,
I savor the pleasure that gets around.
The morningside country beckons to me.

The city’s too busy; crowded and fried.
I wish to kiss the winds with a resound!
I take a ride through the the morning country.

I wake up, and the sun is in my eye.
She's there with me as my feet hit the ground,
The morningside country beckons to me.

This woman I love, she knows how to try,
She knows where my sincere heart can be found.
We take a ride through the morning country.

There are those days that certainly blindside.
What I do often for sorrow to drown--
I take a ride through the morning country,
The morningside country beckons to me.
181 · Apr 2017
The Sunset's Agent
JS Clark Apr 2017
The deliberate suitor raps upon
Another parlor door.

The rocky trail has bested him
As his heel is bruised and sore.

But he feels the pain is worth it
He’s so full of love yet to outpour…

But he’s nothing specific--
She seeks the professional sort,
He’s a man miscellaneous--
He has nothing to offer...

It’s supposed that his future lay in his brains.
He’s so **** restless though,
He can only hop the trains.
He’s a miscellaneous!

The idea of his conforming to a niche
Would be a concept he could never

He can’t see himself,
Though into 10,000 mirrors
He’s had to of gazed--

The jack of all trades and master of none.
This is the man miscellaneous--
Let me show you the fellow who has
Slipped through all the cracks...

The women can’t take him.
The bosses reprimand him.
The preachers like to brand him.
And society likes to use his head
For its excrement.

Like Atlas, he bears the weight.
The weight of his sin; the weight of his hate.
The whole world’s **** of useless information,
Fed to him by wires and pages--

He’s become a man miscellaneous--
Nothing specific,
Just a wavy form upon the horizon.
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