there was this one time
that my family and I were
on food-stamps because my
wife was pregnant, and on Medicaid
because I got laid off,
because I was trying
to go back to college,
so that I could get a
piece of paper
that said I was smart
even though I used
crutches to walk.

because a piece
of paper is more
believable than
your eyes or
my mouth.

and, we were starving
so I used my mouth
to convince someone
in a tie that I really had
a disability, and a need
to eat.

that person, and his tie
asked me how long I’d
been disabled, so I
told ‘em…since 1975
is that long enough?

there was this one time
that my wife was pregnant,
and on Medicaid, and I bet
we were on food-stamps too,
and the babies that were alive
in her belly died.

so, I did the only thing
I could think of to do,
I got a tattoo, because
I wanted to carry some
part of them with me
forever, and have  some
part of something that I
could show you too.


there was this one time
that I worked a job
that was stuffed and
funded by grandmas
and grandpas, by
mommas and daddies;
by people that had done
the best that they knew
how to do.
and I would go see them,
check on them, making
sure that they were safe,
warm, and away from harm.

that job is the best job I ever had,
and we’re fighting funding cuts
because people think that these
folks somehow aren’t worth it;
that they somehow are facilitating
a drug or alcohol problem, or a
******* new tattoo.

there was this one time
that I was disgusted by all
the hate-mongering, lion-killing
veteran-suicideing, poor man hating,
cop-killing, killer-copping, Jesus-weaponizing
and just wanted to be a human
surrounded by other humans
and have those other humans
care about me while I promised
to care about them.

there was this one time.
and, it was a long ****
time ago.
*

©P&ZPublications; 2015
-JBClaywell

I step carefully off of the curb,
the white plastic bag is looped
over the handle of my crutch,
inside the bag are a couple of Little Debbie
nutty bars, a bottle of diet Sprite,
and a bottle of Pure Leaf, Southern Style
Sweet Tea.
Angela’s not with me.
I’m taking her a treat.  
She’s working
on campus.
Making my way back to my car,
I spot a maroon 1984 Datsun 510
at one of the pumps.
Immediately, I have to check it out;
we had one of those when I was a boy.
I freeze.
Hanging the nozzle back on the pump,
is my father,
he is wearing khakis, a red and blue striped
polo shirt, and tennis shoes. His hair is less gray
than it was when I saw him just yesterday, and what’s
up with those glasses?  The frames are really thick!
“Hey…Pops?” I say.
He looks up, his eyes wide, green
and full of life, confusion racing across his face.
“Jay?”
“Yeah.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m 40.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m 44.”
“Whoa.” we both say at the exact same time.
“What year is it?” he asks.
“2015.” I reply.
The 44 year old version of my father
and the 40 year old version of myself
stare at one another for another minute.
Finally, the silence breaks.
“You know, I have a wife and three kids.”
He only laughs that deep, hearty, infectious laugh
that has become an inherited trademark.
“And, your mom’s got beans, Spanish rice, and hamburger
patties working at home.
Last I heard, you were pretty excited about supper tonight.”
“I’m sure I am.  I started work on this thing early, no doubt.”
pointing to my gut.
It is painfully obvious that we are both afraid to touch one another.
No hug.
No handshake.
Nothing but a small wave
once he’s back in the car.
But, as he drives down Frederick Ave.,
toward the house,  
I see his window drop.
“I always knew!”
he yells.
“You still do!”
I yell back.
The Datsun warbles and shimmers
like water in the sun
then blips out of existence.
*
©2015 P&ZPublications;
-JBClaywell

Today, a total loss,
nothing could’ve been
done to save it.

Today was relegated
to the wierdos,
the lady who wears her
cat on her head,
her daughter’s miniskirt
hovers just below her
naughty bits as I ask
momma my litany.

And, I’m an all-American
red-blood, to be sure.
I would look, I would,
but that poor kiddo’s
got a face like a trainwreck,
so none of it looks worth
looking at, if you ask me.

I’m just trying to get out
the door of the cat-hatted
lady and her daughter,
the clockstopper.

Getting back to the office,
putting some desk-time in,
I call the war vet with the PTSD
so deep that it’s in his DNA.

His voice, so quiet
the rage underneath
is audible.

Cradling the phone,
I fret for just a bit,
wondering if his meds
are doing their duty,
and pondering the next
visit to his address.
*

©2015 P&ZPublications;
-JBClaywell

It is Sunday, 7:45am.
The oldest child is scuttling around the kitchen,
I can hear toaster-pastry wrappers
being torn asunder.
Staring at the ceiling fan, with its dusty blades,
my arm extends above my face, my hand separates the pages
of the very first Longmire mystery.
No words have been read for several minutes.
Putting the insurance agent’s business card between the leaves,
the book finds the nightstand.
I roll to face my wife.
Propped on an elbow, I look, rewind a handful of memories and know
I’m in the right bed, in the right place, and am grateful for that knowledge.
That isn’t to say that I’ve never pondered other beds, other ceiling fans;
androcentric honesty with myself  proves otherwise, of course.
The adorable high school chubster, crystallized into the stately blonde;
what would it be like, staring at her ceiling fan, lying stickily next to her, trying
to drum up conversation?
I cannot imagine.
Or, the raven haired stunner, with her perfect imperfections;
she steals my breath with every glance, at every venue, every time,
yet, despite the ease with which I can imagine her polished toenails
stabbing the air beside my ears, I cannot imagine her ceiling fan,
nor can I imagine the effort needed to assist her to an aura of comfort
inside her own skin.
So, here, in my home, in my bed, with my wife;
propped on my elbow,
I look at her
and I am glad when she adjusts her position,
her snoring intensifies momentarily
and she chuffs some morning breath into my face.
Dismissing the smell, I am mesmerized by her
fairy saddle of freckles. (I count them. Eighty five.)
I am enthralled with her unruly strawberry-blonde haystack,
the paleness of her skin, the fullness of her lips, and the fullness
of my heart for her.
A minute passes and I have replayed some of our most memorable
moments under this bedroom’s ceiling fan.
Sure, they’ve been sweaty, sticky, and such;
but they’ve given way to some of the best, most honest,
and most vulnerable conversations of my life
and they’ve given me the best people I’ve ever met,
or played a part in making.
Like the blades of a ceiling fan
my thoughts can turn,
my eyes might wander,
but my heart will always
come home.

you speak so freely
of your discord,
your worry over
what others think.

you never bother,
to look inside, to see
the cup you offer,
the sour, spoiled stink.

it’s easy to claim disharmony;
to profess to be the cup from
which only a few can drink,

but, if honesty were present,
and ethic of work, were here
the cup would be full,
the tea would be easily
potable.

alas, the cup is shallow,
there is no steam,
it brings no warmth,
no welcoming pull.

dishonest love,
a selfish heart,
is all that you can
serve.

an empty cup,
a vacant tea room
is more than you
deserve.

He slides his cheap little Timex
onto his wrist and hops into
the passenger seat.

We could end up just about anywhere,
the local video store, a coffee shop,
the myriad of thrift stores,
or the ******* moon.

He doesn’t care,
as long as I turn him loose.

He just wants to be a big guy,
and wishes he had a squad of
loud cohorts to tag alongside
but, he doesn’t.

So, we hit the street,
my boy and I,
and I warn him…

'Don’t leave the building,
don’t go with anyone;
be back here in 30 minutes.'
He nods vigorously,
anxious to be off.

At the bottom of the 35th minute,
my nerves creep up.
Recalling the time I was almost
kidnapped.
I’ve never forgotten that old man
with his cane covered in etched snakes
and his offering of Reese’s peanut butter cups.

I’m in that hospital hallway, near that drinking fountain,
and my momma steps out of nowhere: “Jay”, she says loudly;
“You get over here by me.”
I move to her side without a word, but with a new awareness.

Fast-forward 30 years, and I’m back.
Standing worried near customer-service;
thinking about how easily swayed  he can be.

I hear a quiet ‘hello’
and can breathe again.
*
-JB Claywell
©P&ZPublications;
2015

Writing in this book,
finding my way in the dark,
seeking, feeling, stretching hands,
straining eyes to see inside the cave
that is my mind these days.

There is a darkness there,
a gloom,
a tomb,
and a womb
all at once.

It’s where I die but feel alive;
or live but feel like I’m dying.

This is the place where I've buried babies,
proclaimed eternal love,
remembered the playground,
recalling the push and shove.

In this space, I clear my head;
I clean my mind,
I think, ponder, and proclaim.
In this place, I stay sane.

This is the place that I’m found,
the place where my mind is sound,
where my love is strong,
where I’m write, right?
And, it’s okay to be wrong.

In this notebook,
I pay what my quiet costs;
in this notebook,
with it’s empty pages,
I find what I've never lost.

*
-JB Claywell
©P&ZPublications;
2015