Is it strange,
do you think,
that today has been
so terrible
and I still have
a smile on
my face?

Believe me,
even I think
it strange
considering
that the blueboy
was content
to submit falsehoods
in his effort to
fill this city’s
coffers with
my children’s
Christmas presents
before they’ve even
been thought of

Even I think it odd
that despite a myriad
of disasters, including
a coffee-****
that moistened
the seat of my
trousers and sent
me scurrying
for the john,
and subsequently
the exit,
I’m still able to
grin.

Despite my chagrins,
in light of a day
filled with folly
bordering on
misery,

the silvery sliver
of hope shows
through.
I’m standing at that crossroad
waiting for The Devil to appear,
and I can tell that Ol’ Scratch
is close, close enough
that I can feel his gaze
inside this, a Wednesday,
a “one of those days”.

When the oldest kid
has puked his bed,
and I’ve got one more
mess to clean up
besides the one in my
drawers, but my shine
won’t dull, no matter
the ache in my skull.

‘Cause when Pitch is asking me:
“Boy, what’chu gonna do? I’ve been
havin’ a fine time messin’ wit’chu!”

I’ll say to Ol’ Pitch, that
sonofabitch…

“My fine, forked-tongued, fiend,
you can’t have no more of me,
for I’m hollerin’ down old dogs, you see?

Them dogs’ll run and hide,
I’ve got a fine crew by my side
into Thursday we will ride
and leave this ******’ day behind!”

This is why I still smile,
because in just a little while
I get to have my rest
My lover’s head upon my
chest, my children in their nests.

Of tomorrow I’ll dream deep
while in the dark, I sleep
pondering possibilities,
probabilities, and simply
other reasons to…

smile.

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications

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

If I were a real poet,
I’d be second-cousin
to Charles Bukowski.
If I were a musician,
I’d be a nephew of Tom Waits.
I think that it’s
a pretty safe bet to say
that the best tracks
on any album are track
#3, #7, and #9.
The best one of those three
is always #7.
Fall is the best time
to listen to jazz
and drink coffee
laced with bourbon.
It’ll get you drunk,
but you’ll be wide awake
at closing time.
My step-daddy
should be Hubert Selby Jr.
I can never sleep past 6am,
even if I go to bed at 2.
Sometimes baby,
the only thing better
than biscuits and gravy,
is you.  
*
-JBClawell
© P&ZPublications; 2015

He went to see the oldboy in the hospital.
It was his job to check in on all the oldboys
and oldgirls that they assigned to him.  
He liked his job very much
the oldboys and/or girls had some of the best stories
or sometimes it was good just to visit with them
and watch the boredom or sadness leave them for a bit,
while they were visiting or chatting.

This particular oldboy was one of his favorites.
The oldboy reminded Jay of both himself and his father in an odd way.
For one, the oldboy had a lot of tattoos
and was always mad about something.
The oldboy had the proverbial soapbox
and wasn’t afraid to stand on it.
Also, the oldboy cussed a lot.
The oldboy was short/fat/bald too,
like Jay’s Pop was and Jay liked,
honestly to see this particular oldboy because
he felt like it gave him a glimpse into his own future.
It didn’t help though that the oldboy liked to smoke
those little blue cigars
and drink a lot of coffee
and whiskey,
because Jay liked, in moderation/sort of,
***** and smoke and cheeseburger sandwiches
and doughnuts
and bacon
and all that stuff that was surely shortening his life.
Jay didn’t like to think about that,
but he liked the look-forward that the oldboy afforded him.

Anyway, the hospital visit came about
and Jay made his way to the third floor
turning left and right scanning the signs
for the right room number.
He found it pretty fast
and made his way to the oldboy’s room.
The room was sad straightaway.
The little closet with the shelves just had a ratty pair of shorts
and a holey tshirt on it.  
The bed was made up tight and clean.
It looked like no one had slept in there the night before.        
There was the oldboy asleep in the hospital room recliner-chair.
He was in his hospital gown and drawers
with ratty old sandals on his feet. His chin was tucked in between his ***** and his gut
and he was snoring loudly.
Hey, Oldboy!
ZZZZzzzz
Hey, Oldboy, ya’wake?
ZZZzzzz
Hey!!  Ya’in here!!??
MMmmhmm?!
Hey, ya okay? Why ya in’here? Whatsamatter? Ya’needsomethin’?
Oh, hiya Jay.
Thanks fer comin’round.
His leftside looks a little hangdog.
They’s tellsa me I’da has had a stroke.
Oh, that’s a ****** shame, Oldboy!  
What the hell’ya gonna do now?
Oh, I’sa don’t right know, Jay.  
I’ma sad shape,
an’ I’ma miss my dog.
Lookit, Oldboy…
I’m calling The State.
I’m telling that they cannot send you
to the house without some extra time for someone to
lookout for you.
They’ve gotta keep someone
keeping  an eyeball on you.
They can’t send you home
with nobody keeping tabs on you.

Hey, that’s a good plan.
In this life ya gotta hava pal
and that pal’s gotta lookowt for ya.
Thanks fer comin’ by, Jay…
MMMhmmmZZZzz.

The Oldboy fell asleep
and Jay talked to some nurses
asking them not to send the oldboy home
until they’d talked to The State
and gotten him some extra help
and they said that they would do that
and they asked Jay to sign a release
and they woke the oldboy up
to ask him if it was okay that they talk to Jay
and the oldboy scribbled his name
on the paper and zonked out
and the nurses talked to Jay
and Jay made ‘em promise to do the good stuff
they said they would
and then he left
and went down the elevator
to the parking lot
and lit a cigarette
and felt sad and sorry
for the oldboy.
*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications

“So, some ******* tells me that I should thank all of the men and women who have served our country and allowed me to have this glorious three-day-weekend. I says to the goon, Yeah? Do you know why we’s are able to enjoy these fine bratwursts on this, a spectacular Monday afternoon? Sure, sure, he tells me. It’s because’a all the service men and women.  What?  So, I asks the guy…What exact holiday are you’s celebratin’? And, he says to me: Why, Labor Day, of course!  So, finally I says to the guy, I says listen here you ******’ goober, I says if you wanna thank dead or living soldiers for your freedom all day long, every day, you’s go right ahead. Hell, I tells ‘em; I’ll even join ya! Lord knows them guys deserve it. But, I says, but…If you wanna thank a poor dead ******* particularly for a tree-day-weekend, known specifically as Labor Day, then you gotta tip ya ******’ hat and say tanks to Jimmy ******’ Hoffa. May he rest in peace, cement and peace, but mostly peace.”

-JBClaywell
©2015 P&ZPublications

It is her china shop.
And, I'm the bull she allows to enter.
In such a small space,
it is easy to see that she wishes I'd leave,
but simple loneliness
inspires her to offer coffee.
I guiltily refuse,
trying to make myself smaller.
We meander through my list of questions,
force some small talk in between.
In the end, as I exit;
sorrow and relief,
mix equally
on her small,
lovely face.

-JBClaywell

©P&ZPublications; 2015

Matt and John sat at John’s kitchen table,
it was 5’clock in the morning,
there was plenty of time
but there was none to waste.
John was glad that Linda and his daughter
were still upstairs asleep.
He was glad too that Matt was driving;
no one knew the streets and alleys better.
John thought that Matt was a bag of hammers,
but he was loyal as hell, kept quiet most of the time,
was brave to the point of stupidity, and drove like a bat.
John got up from his chair;
poured another coffee.
Matt nursed a beer.

Everything they needed was in the mini-van;
an innocuous thing lifted rather smartly from
a long-term parking lot near the airport.

Pistols not shotguns, John had insisted.
Matt’s argument was simply that shotguns
were scarier.

John lit a cigarette and sipped some
coffee.

First National would fall.
John was sure of it.
He and Matt would leave
that bank’s lobby with about
3 million dollars strapped to their backs;
they’d lose the bulls, skate by the house,
pick up the girls, and be California-bound
by the time the fast food joints
stopped serving breakfast.

On the other side of town,
the police barracks was alive
with activity.
Two old-school throwbacks
Det. Luke Richardson and his partner,
Det. Mark Gonzalez, had gotten
a tip.

A greasy little stool-pigeon
named Hector had said
the word was that Johnny Dunn
and his raw-wired cousin, Matt,
were planning to take down First National Bank
on Friday, the first of the month,
payroll day.

They’d been leaning
on Hector for a couple
of months,
finally offering
him a knockback
on a B & E pinch
that they’d held
over his head like
an anvil.

Hector squawked
for immunity on that one
as well as
state’s evidence
regarding chatter
he’d heard about
the bank job.

Their gear was set,
vests cinched tight,
shotguns in the car.
Their service pistols cleaned,
oiled, and loaded,
with one in the chamber.
Holdout pieces strapped
to their ankles.

It was about 6:45 am,
First National’s drive-thru
opened at 7:30.
The lobby would open by 9,
but staff would be in the building
by 7;
tellers making sure their cash-drawers
were customer-ready.

The two detectives left
the briefing room,
strode the short distance
to the motor pool,
started the car…
the radio crackled
to life…

static
All units this is Control
static
We have a silent alarm triggered
for a 211 in progress
at 14th and  Carver Avenue
static
First National Bank
static

Mark was behind the wheel,
Luke flipped on the siren,
it blipped then began to wail.

The Gospel was being written.
All units, saints and sinners,
were on the move.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications