He’s a squirrel,
dashing and dithering
here, there, *******
everywhere

At near six feet,
he towers, but
at 120 he’s not
much more than
a cat-tail.

(yet, so very much more)

At the end of the day
he rattles; bits of this
and that in his pockets,

I’m waiting for the day
when he palms a Marlboro
and one of my lighters.

Having a thing for fire,
I know it’ll be soon;
we already hide the
matches.

But, it’ll happen.

Will I make him smoke
a whole pack? Nah.
Where’s the lesson there?
He’s nicotine ****** or puking,
while I’m out a pack of smokes.

It’ll watch him cough, hack, spit;
realizing the error made.

Same one I made,
‘cept I kept at it.

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016

the page laps ink
like milk from a bowl

sometimes there’s
enough for
my hungry soul.

my mind,
like Richard Parker
with a mutton shank,
gnawing away.

it all moves at
a snail’s pace,
never fast enough.

it is not a pleasant
thing to think
that there is so
much more to be
done.

I know I’ll never
get to it all.

It’s not right,
in fact all wrong,
there is no warmth,
there is no song,

not enough steaks,
not enough ham,
all that is left
is blackberry jam.

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016

It was an interesting thing
to be in a bookstore
with him.

The altered state came
almost immediately,
it was hard not
to notice the happening
of it.

It was an electricity
that changed,
charged his large
frame,

making him almost
mountainous.

For just a minute,
we were all blokes
who liked
books,

but he became
a book-buyer/bookseller
a few paces past
the threshold.

When he spotted that
one treasure, that particular
hardcover,
perhaps a first-edition,
he proclaimed
it’s value forthwith.

With his eyes wide,
a sidelong grin,
he dived into the pages,
inhaled deeply
through his nose.

Continuing,
he examines
the tome fastidiously,
expertly announces
the novel’s value
at thrice what the
shopkeeper is asking
and advances to the
counter.

Soon after,
we left that shop,
each of us weighed
down with brown paper
parcels.

Stowing those,
we then sought
smoked gouda,
beef sandwiches,
and potatoes fried
in duck fat.

It was time for lunch.

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016

I imagine Melancholy to be a person,
rather like Jude Law.
He's dapper,
handsome,
well-dressed.

He wears something
straight out of 1945,
a trilby hat,
and suspenders.

Sitting on a short-legged wooden stool,
he appears at the corners
of my consciousness.

He always has a lowball glass in his hand,
casually sipping an amber liquid
and smoking unfiltered cigarettes.
He tells me that I cannot
seem to do anything right.

He tells me I am a fraud.
He tells me that everyone I know
already knows this.

Melancholy comes to call,
sits in the same room with me,
smokes cigarettes,
stubbing the butts out on the floor,
drinks my whiskey,
and laughs at me.

A typical Sunday.

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2015

“Where are the Slim Jims?” I asked.
“Are you with that woman?” the clerk
asked back.

“No, I’m with me.” I replied.
“Because, she just got one.” says the clerk.
“Okay. I want my own.” I said.

“You need to calm down.” he says.

The circuitry sparks.
The hard drive spins up.
Maximum.

“What?” I ask
and I really want to
know too.

“I said, You need to calm down;
beef jerky and stuff is right over there.”

“Oh, okay…and I’m not even wound up,
but I can get that way, if you’d like.”

“No, man. I was just saying…”
he trails off.

I wish I knew what he was just saying
and why he was just about to say it.

I wish I knew what I
would have said too.

Both of us were almost
*******.

Relax, chief.
It’s just practice.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016

The tree is being cut down
it has no choice in the matter.
If someone is coming at you with an axe,
you can run away.
The tree has to stand there and take it.
The tree is rooted;
bound to that one spot;
there is no escape, none,
never was.

Do you ever wonder if
the tree feels the axe
cut into it?

Does it resonate through
the whole of the tree,
like it resonates through
me?
-
For some reason
I’ve been having to interact
with more homeless or panhandler types
than ever before.

I always wonder why they approach me
in the first place.

I guess it has something to do with
the perception of shared struggle
or something.

I’ll probably never figure it out,
but it could be something like that.
Regardless, it never lasts very long.

The dirtleg sees the guy on crutches as
some sort of kindred:

“Hey man, can you give me a couple of bucks,
so I can get my car going?”

“No sir, I can’t.
I don’t have any cash on me.”

(Actually, I have about $50 in my wallet)

“Okay, brother, thanks anyway.”

“Sorry, sir.”

(I just want to go home.)

{From a block away}

“******* crippled *******!”

(I can still hear him.)

I imagine wiping his blood
off of my crutch before I get
in the car.

The engine turns over.
I drive home.

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016

There is nothing left
but a mute scream
wrapped in barbed wire
dipped in gasoline

Holding the match
between teeth
clenched tight
dreaming sulfur,
sparks

Oxygen feeding
combustion equals
explosion,
vacuum,
creation of
emancipated
******

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016