All grey and pulpy inside
with 100 pages
and a beautifully speckled
black and white cover,
it’s clean, and it’s mine.

Those leafs aren’t white,
but they sure do shine.

The possibilities are endless
and lately they’ve been hard won.

I think I’ll take a few minutes
to see what I can get done.

A poem or story; a bit of journal
just for fun?

I don’t know what to write,
I’ll have to wait and see.
I’ll wait for inspiration
from friends, work, or family.

No matter when the words go in,
no matter how long it takes,
those sheets that glisten and
shine, waiting for ink,
are always there for me.

*

-JB Claywell
©2015 P&ZPublications

Earnest Hemmingway says that writing is akin to bleeding.
The adjunct English professor told me that it definitely wasn’t easy.
And, that anyone who says it is,
is a ******* liar.
I disagree.
I think writing is akin to ******* in the beginning,
and ******* later on.
The first few times you try it,
you may not be very good at it,
but you like the results.
The more you do it,
the better you get at it.
You figure out what words or phases
turn you on the most, and you use those the best.
They get the best word-gasms out of you.
Reading books is, in this instance,
a lot like looking at *******.
It shows you what some of the other possibilities are.
It gives you examples of what works for other people
and what you can make work for you, and an audience,
if you like.
But, for the most part,
you’re doing whatever you’re doing
for the one who loves you most.
You’re doing it for yourself.
Later on, you can write for an audience.
You can take them with you, make them feel you,
show them wonders never before seen.
Like *******; the first few times might be clumsy
or awkward.
But, soon enough they’ll seek you out.
They’ll want your words for their own release.
Like loyal lovers, they’ll need your embrace.
So, maybe writing is like bleeding.
But, maybe it’s not.
Maybe it’s like *******, or jerking off.
So, do it a lot.
*
-J. Claywell
©P&ZPublications; 2014

He got this monster of a machine rolling.
Someone, I forget who,
It might have been Chris,
told me to go see him at this bookstore.
I did, and it took off from there.
He looked like an average guy,
nothing out of the ordinary about him.
But, when he talked about writing,
he made it all sound so easy.
Like anyone could do it,
even me.
When he talked about reading,
he made it sound even easier.
Like a magic-show or
a rock concert.
I'm not talking about quiet time.
I'm talking about spilling your guts in front of strangers.
I did it once, and that was it.
I was hooked like a *******' trout.
I've done it a hundred times since then.
Man, it's cathartic, like jerkin' off.
No one can love you, like you do.
Only you're doing it in a room full of people.
But, they don't matter, and for a few minutes
they ain't there.
It's just you and your words,
and a live microphone.
  

Falling out of bed,
sliding down to the floor.
Flesh of my back
catches the edge of
the nightstand,
peels back in a 12-inch
strip that my wife
finds on the floor,
and dutifully throws in
the trashcan.
She’s throwing me out,
one piece at a time.

Sending my kid down that hallway
clad only in his underpants and socks
wasn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done
as a parent, but it was close.
He looked so small
as he walked away from us.
He was staring down at the IPad
and I was glad for the distraction it brought.
He walked willingly, if not a little blindly into the unknown.
The O.R. nurses led the way, chattering away to selective ears which
listened primarily to the beeps and boops of “Plants Vs. Zombies”
or some such nonsense.
We kissed his forehead and said we’d see him soon.
He muttered a goodbye and swiped his finger left to right
setting a trap for the next digital enemy.
We waited in a very comfortable, yet uncomfortable room;
with strangers and their concerns and cares thickening the oxygen
I was trying to breathe.
There was coffee and doughnuts, cereal and milk.
We ate breakfast on Styrofoam plates and out of paper cups;
we waited.
When it was done we were told how it all played out.
The surgeon spoke of it in the same way my mechanic
talks about replacing a head gasket,
only with about 1000% more confidence;
like it was literally no big deal at all.

He wished he’d been born tough
instead of already broken down in ways.
Raised by an English teacher;
he didn’t complain about it,
but sometimes wished
it was by a linebacker
or first baseman instead.
Jesus Christ, just look at him!
He was a yard across at the shoulders
yet a good shove would’ve
put him on his ***.
He resented it sometimes;
especially considering the way
he was wired.
Like a pilot light
that’s always looking for a reason
to fire up all four burners
all at once.
Sometimes he wished
that he could fight his way out of a bar,
just once.
Spend the night on a jailhouse cot.
Go to the ER with a broken nose.
The adult in him knows that these are foolish thoughts.
He’s too old for that **** now,
pushing 40.
Sometimes he feels 25 and powerful.
Sometimes he feels geriatric and slow.
He likes himself better now than he did
10 years ago.
But, then wonders what could’ve been
and who he’d be if he’d been able
to draw his first breath just
15 minutes sooner.
In the end, he figures that
maybe he’d like himself less than he does
right now.
That’s the only thought
that saves him
now and then.

where did it go?
left in some boxed toys in a garage sale?
nah, it was left on school buses and playgrounds
trampled in the grime and dirt of too many fistfights.
tossed aside for the brave face that kept me alive for
another surgery…and recovery.
I tried to find it a few times
but too much time had passed
and little else had gotten better
I had moved on…unwittingly…unwillingly
moved into the territory of the adult
able to hold my own in a conversation
that should have been over my head
but was not.
I had discovered a different kind of toy
one that smelled like wild cherry bubble gum when first opened
one that was magnetic as it’s sounds unwound across my tape machine.
I tried to talk to people my age about my discoveries
They were too busy discovering their own wonders
like a pretty solid fastball...or even second base.
Years and youth gone
I lived alone
with notebooks, headphones, and cassette decks
content to leave their world for my own
a combination of riffs and words
that inspired me to use my own voice
to produce as good or better than the gods that lived
in my backpack.
I make my way…
and the old gods still ride along.