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She had these little cups
of coffee for eyes, and I
should have stayed up
all night.
Love is a drunk *****.
A lie from Saturn.
Venus, slither back in the
ocean where you belong.
Loneliness is a knife cutting
my ***** off.
Knowledge arrived with an
alarm clock from hell,
always the wrong *******
time. Slammed doors, words
of hatred.
What happens to the man that
inherits the wind?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rOGBCY2FM_c
Here is a link to my YouTube channel where I read from my recently published book, Sleep Always Calls, available on Amazon.com
When my oldest brother, Todd,
came back for my mom's funeral,
he had this light about him.
His face was a poem.
Sure, he was the oldest, and he
had a healthy-looking tan from the
hot New Mexico sun, working
outside with turquoise, silver,
and bear claws to make
jewelry for the tourists, but there
was more than that.

He was an artist, and all artists have
a fractured ease about things, but he
lit up.  Something from the inside
projected out.
He comforted everyone else, we leaned
on him.  His eyes oozed serenity.

A few calendars later, when I traveled
back for his funeral, I saw the same
look on a few of his friends' faces.
His wife told me after the service
that Todd had gotten sober years before.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gn9IAYo0wZE&t=9s
Here is a link to my YouTube channel, where I read poetry from my latest book, Sleep Always Calls, available on Amazon.  My other boos on Amazon are Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems and It's Just a Hop, Skip, and a Jump to the Madhouse.
Bowing to the ***** god,
I lived like a pleasure
seeking missile, propelled
toward all things ME.
Empty as a carcass.
Hungry as a desert.
I didn't see the
strawberry moon of
summer.
It was me and the
Ferryman, until the
river ran dry.
Eternal winter for
the soul.

And then

A revolution in my
being.
A total shift in
my values and
perception.
The Creator purchased
my dilapidated heart.
He moved in and lives
there still.

My home, on the outside
might look like
a shack to some, but inside
it's a mansion with the
most sublime bread you
ever tasted.
Fruit trees in every room.
Here is a link to my latest YouTube poetry reading.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7tpMDoNXg_U
My books are available on Amazon.  They are Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems, It's Just a Hop, Skip, and a Jump to the Madhouse, and my latest book, Sleep Always Calls
You like me
and I like you.
So there’s just one
thing to do–
or two,
or three.
It’s true we’re probably not compatible
as you’re not so much the intellectual
but the main point is that
we’re both heterosexual.
So come on over, I like the way you talk.
You like the way I jiggle.
I like the pic you sent me of your….
Make it sooner,
I don’t have much time.
And I know that you’ll never be mine.
But thinking of you makes me quiver.
I only hope I’m not promising more
than I can deliver.
Sometimes two people just start having ****** fantasies about each other at the same time...and age, social differences etc. seem like they just don't matter.

Songs for this:
Old Folks Boogie, by Little Feat
Dancing Barefoot, by Patti Smith
A night at the Museum,
and we're dressed to ****.
The mood is gleeful–
and the people, chill.
All court the kings and queens of shill.

Our ****** deeds are whitewashed clean.
Our grievous crimes are left unseen–
sanitized versions on the tv screen.

But our steps were tracked with care
by one who could no longer bear
the growing horror, the scenes from there.
The cry of anguish, the dead-eyed stare.

Now the blood drips on our shoes.
Our deaths headline the evening news.
Yet still, the truth has only views
on internet sites with volunteer crews.

When there is no other way
Desperation will have its day
If you really want to see what's going on in Gaza, you have to go to sites such as Reddit and look at the World news subreddits. Then you'll understand.
The sky is on fire,
and the world holds its breath.
It bleeds out in streaks of crimson,
fingers of flame
licking the edges of clouds,
leaving behind ash that the wind cannot carry away.

It doesn’t scream.
No, it only burns
in silence,
a slow, tender rage,
as if the heavens themselves
have grown tired
of holding the weight of the stars.

We watch from below,
a chorus of small prayers
wrapped in our own fragile skin.
Some of us still believe in rain,
in the mercy of the dark,
but tonight,
the fire is too bright,
too wild,
too beautiful
to look away from.

The sky is on fire,
and I wonder if this is how
the end begins—
a blaze too beautiful to escape,
too hot to be touched.

We hold onto the night,
our hands trembling with the heat,
knowing,
somehow,
that this fire does not care
if we burn with it.

The sky is on fire,
and all we can do
is watch
as it consumes
the last of the light.
I’ve been sprinting through this life, caught in a whirlwind of urgency and strife, weaving through congested streets just to reach the sanctuary of home.
Trying to keep grinding, though my destination is unknown.
The grind never ceases; I push forward until exhaustion grips me.
Yet, I rise again, for stopping is not an option.
Barely making ends meet, where is my antitoxin?
I pour every ounce of my being into this life, striving to carve out a place for myself.
Trying to tell myself that my dreams will someday be taken off their self-imposed shelf.
I’m stumbling, balancing precariously on this tightrope of ambition.
Don’t falter; don’t gaze down.
The drop won’t seem so daunting if you don’t mind the sound.
Gasping for air, I gather my strength to face it all once more.
I crave tranquility, peace of mind.
Struggling through the chaos, it’s hard to find the time.
I need to be my own anchor, be my own best friend.
After all, that’s all we possess in the end.
Suddenly, in the chaos of it all, a voice like an angel pierces the veil of the struggle.
Tears flow, my silent release from the weight of this existence, a small reward for all of my persistence.
The music begins, its melody enveloping me completely, every note hanging in the air so sweetly.
All my pain is unlocked, and my soul breathes a bit, and for a moment, there is nothing but the moment of this song.
A moment in time I stole from this heavy world, all of my resistance…silently unfurled.
-Rhia Clay
i.

let's give pakistan money
to nuke india.
never a higher mountain than trash.

the Western world needs this to happen,
both are a problem,
but one more populated than the other.

looking for a job lately?
there is so much to be said for colonization.
india says everything.

india amazon selling bottles of cow ****,
either (don't) accept it or drink it,
do you really want to drink it?

some days are over,
we have learned too much, we see and see and cannot stop seeing.

ii.

too much loneliness
a number that stays zero
dreams that have nowhere left to travel
the times, they are so bare

the way hope expels
for good,

the king of England
wears a tablecloth on his head
his kingdom, his country, a gutted intestine
it is very crowded there

all the king's countrymen &
all the good places to go
disemboweled
third world kneels in parasitic prayer

***** garbage on the ground, ***** garbage all around
the way hope expels
for good,
it is no small tear
To all muslims and hindus who have attempted to take stake in the Western world: you have shown the world who you are;  you are not compatible with us, you ruin everything you touch. your countries are proven to have an IQ of below retardation.  Western countries have and will continue to acknowledge this. Get out while you still can. You are in our countries because your countries have failed and have proven yourselves completely incompatible with our countries and completely incapable of proving your worth to us. You are not capable of sustaining anything livable and will never be. You are cursed by your own pride.
Swaying, to an electronic beat.
Hallucinogenic mushroom treat.
Blissed out youth in easy grace,
dancing in a limbic space
in their comfy border town--
have no idea what’s going down.

But there will always be disorder
if you choose to paint Hell’s border
while you live on the other side--
a created,  artificial divide.
Heaven and Hell will soon collide.
"challenge you to write a poem that involves music at a ceremony or event of some kind"
Deep down, from the river, from the black earth
From Mississippi mud to Chi town streets
Slow, and rhythmic, ****** beats.
A man stands,  late to his own show,
and declares to the audience below
that he is a Man. Spelled M, A, N.
We believe. His mastery,  presence,
husky voice. The essence
of Man. And what the men don’t know–
the little girl understands. It’s my first show
without my parents. My brother's there.
A man sitting near us shoots up–I stare,
as smoke of cigarettes and **** fills the air.
A packed crowd, eager to see
one of the last of the greats, history.
But no nostalgic, fleecing tour is this .
One of Muddy’s last is still at the top of my list.
He died five years later. It's still one of the best concerts I've ever seen. He only sang and didn't play guitar, but the back up band was great. Georgetown University, September 1978.
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