In all the smashed cat in the road days of
hungover afternoons, and empty pocket
mornings, one constant wherever I was
were the trips to the library.

I read most everything back then:
Hamsun
Hemingway
Steinbeck
Fitzgerald
Eugene O’Neil, and Gogol,
and always Bukowski.
They were my lighthouse in the
abysmal fog of street life, and the
abscessed ocean of bent dreams.
The greats could always squeeze juice from
the words and I drank them down in
those lonely city libraries.  
It mixed well with the ***** and whiskey.

Some of the libraries had security guards.
Their job was to yell, “No sleeping”, as they
walked by, like witnesses at a hanging.
I dozed in those comfortable chairs,
noon light bathing me in golden peace.
I was a knight, the hero, Thomas, the great.
I hated those ******* for waking me up.
I’d rise and wander around to stay awake.  

Every time,
everywhere,
there she’d be,
my, clean, quiet, well-read, heavenly librarian.
Brown hair in a bun, large glasses, and usually
a silk blouse and tweed skirt, **** as sin.  

I watched her for hours.  I wrote about her,
the way she moved and talked and smelled of
lilies and jasmine.
I made up scenes of wild *** in the
fiction section on top of
Dostoyevsky and Joyce,
Huckleberry Finn and Tropic of Cancer.
Miller and Nin would have blushed.

I pictured her bent over the banister by the
travel book section on the third floor.
I’ve got her skirt hiked up over her ***,
and I’m in Wonderland, El Dorado, and the
Emerald City all rolled into one.
She guided me through suicidal days and made
the wait to become a writer a worthwhile utopia.

Lilac hush
earth, half-waking,
baroque birdsong.

Moss curls ,
dew beads on nettle’s tongue
small, glassy prayers.

wind
silk-handed seamstress
stitches light into every leaf,
veiling the world
breath and bloom.

Bones of old trees cradle the sun’s milk,
wildflowers nestle in their ribs
what dies here, lives softer.

river, translucent and slow,
spills silver veins , the skin of the valley
a quiet pulse beneath the green.

Somewhere between sky and soil,
we become the silence
lungs folding into pollen-laden air,
fingertips brushing the hem of forever.

Nothing belongs.
Nothing is apart.

In the meantime,
the world remakes itself
petal by petal, wing by wing
and we, fragile passengers,
are simply learning how to listen.

Even the earth struggles with finite woes when the horizon calls like a distant dream. Leaving our unchatered minds to imagine beyond the vastness. Secrets of the stars,  and rhythm of the auroras.
A timeless wonder indeed! Inspiring the  adventures of men in the moon, space and beyond.
Nevertheless, the infinite depth of what was, what is and what will be will forever remain is to uphold
And even though the cosmos may seem so far. Every being knows its path beneath the sun. For each footstep, big or small, strong or fragile. It found the courage to grow and stand tall
Through valleys of doubt, over mountains of fear,
With every stride, the path becomes clear.
Each step a story, a dream taking flight,
A journey unfolding, from darkness to light.
The ground may tremble, the winds may howl,
Every bruise, every scar, a mark of grace,
That shows the courage to continue the race.
No matter the size, no matter the pace,
The steps we take, leave an indelible trace.
For every challenge, we find the strength to stand,
Each footstep a testament to the soul’s command.
Finding  a place admist eternal praise.

When a black sheet has been
thrown over the moon
and a million lazy stars
have fallen from view
I hear the wind has
grown tired of traveling
I hear the sound of mandolins
crying in the mountains
I hear the rattle of
gypsy wheels
I hear the heavy hearts
of horses upon the
restless roads of
broken poetry ...
Clay.M

Death . . .
the great equalizer.

The surest cure
to brazen  ambition .

Kings , Queens , princes and Popes ,

Generals , dictators , and those with false hopes .

As evil does , so it will be .

Fall so fast and hard
toppled like a cedar tree .

The vine's been cut
the branches wither

All the fruit so vile and bitter

All will burn in the heat of fire ,

the briars and vines and wooden liars .

~
Maternal midnight

Metallic lakeside

Freon heart, fayence mind

Eyelids of iron ore

Influence feet into the water

Into an embargo bay

Clear and innocuous, innocuously blind

Hills like white elephants on a polar plateau

Mosquitos on her mouth

Drink the blood of encryption

Change the tone of her voice

They pass behind the blue vein

Become infinite particles of her
~