It’s impossible to be sure
just what this is.
It feels like decay,
like drought.

Walking tonight
like an angry dog
on a very long leash.

Ready to lunge or
snap at the nearest
passerby.

Willing myself to
expel some of the
bile, the filth,
the wretchedness
into the ether.

Blues like an
anvil between
the shoulders.

It waits in the shadows
for the next opportunity.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPulications; 2016

In a room full of pundits and pud-pullers
I just wanna be the poet.
There’s not a ******* thing
that’s wrong with that either.

No, I won’t be that guy reading “Pride and Prejudice”
just so I can get a handle on the *******
zombie movie that’s coming out.

Give me a Mickey Spillane novel
and a slice of pizza.
Give me a Bukowski poem
and a pork chop.

That’s the problem here,
nobody seems to want to recognize their
base nature.

Nobody wants to admit that they still like *****
and *******, a nice ***,
and an amazing pair of blue eyes.

Everyone wants to point out what everyone else
is doing wrong while
hiding behind hashtags and keyboards
like chickenshits.

I’ve had enough of it,
and I’ve narrowed my field of
vision, while widening my perspective
You see, I plan to be the best version
of me that I can be

today

then I’ll do it again tomorrow.

If I knock somebody’s drink in
their lap at some point
in between,
I won’t lose a second’s sleep over it.

I’ll just try to do better on the next pass.

*

-JBClaywell
©2016 P&ZPublications

post dim sum,
I had my lights dimmed.
walking back to the car,
slipping on the winter-slicked
tile steps of my favorite Chinese
noodle hut, down I went.

limbs and crutches akimbo,
there was no salvaging my dignity.
I lost the daily challenge after enjoying
some twice-cooked pork.

Cerebral palsy doesn’t **** around
in the wintertime.
and I was reminded all too thoroughly
just who the boss is,
and it sure wasn’t me.

when asked to describe my day-to-day
to the able-bodied,
I always say: “It’s like being born with roller-skates on
but never being able to learn how to skate.”

and I still don’t know.

(my elbow, my knee, and Pam are well aware.)

*
-JBClaywell

© 2016 P&ZPublications

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

it’s a tough business I’m in.
and I wouldn’t choose to do
anything else really.

sure, I’d write more or maybe
give a talk here or there if
they’d ask me, but then…

doing this thing in December
is the worst,
because you get to see just
how much poor these folks
are living in.

the quiet rumble of the big man
his voice like a rolling, roiling
thundercloud, not ready or willing
to unleash.

the snap and pop of the whole of him
as he stands to greet me is like the lightning
and his massive sigh as he returns to his recliner
is a gust of gray sorrow filling my sky.

“Look at this,” he says, “just look.”
I do; and I see the old scrub brush
Christmas tree he’s had his attendant
*****.
“There ain’t a ****** thing under there.” he says
to me and to the universe at large. “And, I’m already…”

I know what he means, as I sneak my litany in.
his answers are the same as always, he’s making
his way and in fair shape.

“I go to the pantry; sometimes to the church,” he continues.
“But, it’s hard to stand in line…last week was two hours for lunch.”

my mind runs to the wallet on my hip and the five crisp, new $100
bills inside, but they aren’t there, they never were, a daydream
of passing one over and seeing him smile, smiling back, and quietly
exiting with a: “shhh…”

but I’m broke too.

I ask weakly if there’s anything can be done.

ignoring the question,
he tells me that all of his good ****
is in hock so that he might get his sister
and his mama something nice.

and here I sat thinking hard, not smart, about
how sometimes it’s not Christmas,
sometimes it’s just a Friday.

“I’ve hocked my good **** before.” he says.
“Take a few months of being really flat to get it back.”

what the **** does really flat look like comparatively I wonder
but don’t ask.

“It’s about the giving.” he rumbles at me.
“It’s about showing the people that care about you
that you care about them too.”

reaching behind his massive self, he grins at me;
pulls a small, carefully wrapped box, from its hiding place.

“Open it.” he instructs.

and I do.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublucations; 2015

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

People act like they are only allowed to or capable of using one line of thought at a time, or that negates all the other thoughts or something. Not me, baby, not me. It’s not like I can’t want the Syrian refugees to be well tended to while at the same time wishing we would do more for our veterans, returning, homeless, disabled or otherwise. Hell, I wish we’d feed our kids and take care of our elderly and mind our footing and everything else too. But, just because I’ve got some of my focus pointed here or there, doesn’t mean I don’t see everything else as well. Really, in the grand scheme of things, to me, this whole thing with the refugees is about being human and treating other humans, humans that have lost virtually everything, like humans, because they deserve to be treated like humans.
We squawk about red cups and refugees, we grouch about taking Christ out of Christmas. We complain that we don’t do enough for homeless vets, or hungry kids, or whatever. But, the remedy is to do what you can, when you can, and how ever you’re able. Next month, I’m going to a local venue to “Rock For Tots”. I’ll get to see some pals, hear some good music, and help some kids get a better Christmas. That’s how I’m keeping my faith, some faith, any faith this holiday season. And, don’t be so foolish to think that I’m saying that the only faith I have is in the local music scene or some such nonsense, but it is a place to start because it’s full of good people trying to do a good thing and they’ll get it done.
Maybe that’s the point here. Maybe we should see our opportunities to do good stuff in the world like I’m seeing this town’s local music scene right now. It’s pretty simple really, just do a good thing, be a good person, and try to make a difference here and there.
To say that all Muslims are terrorists is stupid, and fearmongering has no place here anymore. It never has. To say that we are “One Nation Under God, Not Allah!” and to ask me to “like and share” that kind of simplemindedness makes me wonder if you understand what America is demographically and how it got that way in the first place.
I’m an American. I’m pretty sure I’m a Christian. (I’m trying real hard to be the shepherd, Ringo.) I know that I’m an Earthling, just like you, and I also know that I’m a Humanist. (If I see a human being out there that I can help; I’m giving it a shot. Hell, it’s what I do for a living.)
‪#‎Hashtags‬ ain’t gonna cut it, friends. We created this country with action. We’re a nation of thinkers, dreamers, and ultimately doers. We get it done, son!
So, do whatever good you can, when you can. If you don’t do that, it’s like not voting…you don’t get to *****.
In the meantime…
I’ll see ya out there.
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; (2015)