My protector,
at least that was what you were meant to be
but as the stars collided with my vision
I knew that was not what you were.

Blood boiling within my veins as I realised my protector
was truly my destroyer
the one that made a gush of tears begin their descent
the one that was causing so much pain

As the hot liquid scolded my skin, as I was moved upwards with forceful yanks, I found out that those meant to love sometimes cannot

sometimes there’s a buzz,
a drone that’s inescapable.
you spend all afternoon walking
around the festival, maybe eating
a turkey leg or some kettle corn,
and you find that you’re surrounded,

swatting absently, hoping for a clear
thought or the ability to offer your
attention elsewhere,
you beg forgiveness of your wife
and children.

other times,
contented to sit in
the middle of the swarm,
chewing the comb,
squishing its warm wax between
teeth, and letting that honey slide
all the way onto the page.

sometimes they sting,
with sharp memory and a
willingness to sacrifice some
of your solace, serenity, or
sanity for the chance to buzz
free.

and when found swollen
with venom or fat and sticky
with honey and wax,
a night’s sleep
and a poem or two
is your reward for sparing
the hive.

the colony buzzes and swarms,
you can feel them, hear them.
they surround, confound,
the words, like bees, abound.

and you must feast again.

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications

that buzz starts
and my palms flood with
sweat.
the needle hits flesh
and it’s all familiar;

I’ve been here before.
still, it’s all forgotten,
except for the idea
that the images I’ve
asked him to mix up
on my arm are very comforting
to me.

Our Lady of Guadalupe
and an ink pen,
I’ve grown up surrounded
by both,

so to stir them together is safe
in its sacrilege,
not sacrilegious at all;

permissible in fact,
because of their combined power,
a display of faith in my own
ability to create, to destroy
darkness and demons

with notebooks and prayers
offered from a small stage,
through a live microphone,

or in a coffeehouse with
the newsman,
the laureate,
the tiger,
the bundle of nerves,
and the denim-clad
troubadour.

Our Lady of Poetry
will watch over us all,
in our church,
the church of the spoken-word.
*
©P&ZPublications; 2015
-JBClaywell

Acquainted with Mark,
I walk to the bookshop;
not the one with the *****,
instead the neon green nightmare
where there’s nothing good to read.

It’s not so much that I’m searching
for anything in particular, but the sun
has gone down and there’s a need in me
to get out of the house and walk around
someplace that feels like someplace.

Walking past the skateboards,
(Why the **** are there skateboards here?)
I start looking for Mark.
“He doesn’t live here” they say, “He never has.”
No, he doesn’t, I gather.

The King does though,
and if I wanted to fall in love
with a vampire there, I certainly could.
But, Mark is nowhere to be found.

The Laureate of Drunkards has a room
there, but he hasn’t moved in and the
staff cannot remember the last time they
saw him.

Dr. Lovecraft and Chitulu have been known to set
up a lemonade stand now and again, but they never
stick around very long, their product is too sour
for palettes around these parts.

Regardless of this, my search continues.
Mark is not here today, but Robert Parker
has rented some space and is rooming with
Ray Chandler, down the hall from Larry Block,
sometimes they cook up some pasta and mussels
in white wine, with good bread.

Sometimes they pan fry steaks, and make home fries
drinking rye until it’s all medium rare.

It’s mysterious, how Mark became an afterthought
and we all hope he hasn’t been murdered, kidnapped,
or met with some other form of foul play.
It’s poetic really,
how Mark will come around now and again
he’s not lost or forgotten,
he’ll be waiting for me when I get home.

We’ll sit in the dark, under the lamp,
together well read his poem titled: “Poem”
and I’ll tell him that he’s better at this noir stuff
than all those other hacks.

But, for now, Mark remains…Stranded.
*

-JBClaywell

©2016 P&ZPublications

you fell in love with his eyes,

and then his face.

you fell in love with his laugh,

and then the sound of his voice.

you fell in love with his quirk,

and then all of his flaws.

you fell in love with his present,

and then with his past as you knew more.

you fell in love with his brokenness,

and then his whole.

you fell in love with the idea of him,

and then with him.

(p)

I saw a homeless man give a mother money,
A businessman brag in an emergency room,
A teenager who cut his wrists tried dying,
And an old man pray for his wife to live.