as the father lifts his toe from
the starting block of his 75th year
and the son stumbles and gropes
past the midpoint of his 41st lap
toward an individual century
it is doubtless that neither of
them will make it to that
particular finish line.

no, it is certain that both
of them will come up short.

not a shame or a sham,
a slight or a shortchanging
just a statement of fact.

the father might come close
and for the sake of the son
it is hoped that he does.

The click and crackle of knee,
hip, and lumbar fill one’s ears
and thoughts with the rumors
of one’s mortality.

It is known that the father will
one day fade as sure as a sunset
and the son will melt into the floor
and stay there.
*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

Electronic invitations are sent
to this festival of pen, paper, and ink.

No one ever shows up anymore.

I don’t mind.

It gives me more time with this notebook
and a head full of fire.

On Sundays,
the coffee is $.87 and I can have
all that I can swallow.

Today, it came black
in spite of my request
and as I made my
attempt to doctor it
into submission,
it spilled.

The next thing I know,
I have a reem of coffee-soaked
napkins and I’m hoping these
pages can be
salvaged.

After doing the best I can
I hit the john to wash my
hands.

Stepping away from the ******
is a man in a suit and tie.
He shoots me a baleful look
which I gratefully return.

He didn’t stop to wash his hands
in his hurry to get away from me
so I know that his cleanliness and godliness
are about the same distance apart.

Upon my return to my wrecked altar
of ritualized scribbling I notice that there are
heavy beads of cream hanging on to the edge,
same as me.

Instead of wiping them up
I head outside and light a
cigarette.

There is a young couple
contented with their quick,
cellophane wrapped sandwiches,
Doritos and sodas,
a fine picnic supper.

I sit so that the wind is in my face
and the smoke blows over my shoulder
into their suppertime soiree.

Upon my exit
they shoot me a baleful
look.

I earned this one.

And, I gratefully
return
home.



*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

Be aware of what you
say you will do.
And then do that thing
with a robustness that
makes sense to you
and would make sense
to anyone that you would
bother to explain it to;
your intentions to do this
thing right and well.

The trick is not to explain
it to anyone at all,
to just do it;
first this thing,
then that one,
then the next one
until you get in the habit
of doing the literal best
you are able in all tasks
that you endeavor upon.

Treat your daily
with a reverence
that you would a child
that you love or an
elder that you’ve respected
in this life  and would
undoubtedly give your
best efforts
on the behalf of.

Soon enough
you will become
a beacon
for those
whom you
interact with.

And it,
this forthrightness,
will become
the
(much needed)
norm for
the whole
of the
human
race.

*
-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

Ol’ Long and Tall sits
uncomfortably in the
seat next to mine.

It is obvious that his
back is bothering him
this morning.

‘Hey, dad…”

This is how it always starts.
Anytime he wants to talk,
he opens with this salvo.

I think it’s like using a turn signal
when changing lanes or something,
and who really knows what lane my boy
is in as he hurtles down his own highway?

It’s not that I don’t know him,
or care what’s on his mind, not
at all.

We’re both thinkers,
Alex and I, it’s just that
he gets a little bit tangled up
now and then, and just goes blank,
but never dull.

I think “Hey, dad…” offers a bit of a reset;
just a moment’s pause for organization,
such as it is in Alex’s case.

“Hey dad…” he starts.
“Did you know…?”

He goes on to tell me
some facts, which I forget
now,
about Hawaii.

Soon, that folder is empty
so he begins telling me tidbits
about the migratory process
of monarch butterflies.

“Where did you learn this stuff?”
I ask.

“At school.”
“On the internet.”
he states.


“Good.”
“That’s good.”
I assure him.

“There’s more to the internet
than You Tube and Minecraft;
and you found it.  I’m glad”

“Yup.” he says and grins his squinty grin
at me.

I nod and keep driving,
it is a school day and we’re on
the highway.

No radio this morning,
just talk.

I wait.
5 seconds
10 seconds
15 seconds

“Hey dad…”

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016

as the coffee cup is rinsed,
the filthy little ******* lands
on the counter to my right.

immediately,
seeking a bludgeon,
his demise is envisioned.

however,
this housefly stays in
my periphery
for just a moment
longer

and

I cannot help but notice
his tiny little mitts, working
and fretting.

imagining the tiniest string
of rosary beads wrapped
around his housefly fists,
it occurs to me that he
might be making his peace
with God.

offering up his little housefly
benedictions, contritions;
apologies for all the sugar bowls,
he’s puked in during his
miniscule little life,

all the little maggots that
he might have fathered
and subsequently abandoned.

I think, without thinking really,
to chide my little countertop
cohort, saying:

“Ah, give it up little one, He isn’t there, He never was,
and if He is, He doesn’t give a second’s thought to the
likes of us.”

the housefly looks at me;
still furiously working his
unseen beads.

“You fool.” he says.

“God has obviously heard my contrition, my apologies,
and has granted me a reprieve, however brief.”

interrupting his novenas,
the housefly continues:

“You, my friend, are so great,
and I am so small,
yet you’ve heard my voice,
seen my beads,
given me reprieve, however brief.

I had asked God to give to you,
just one golden moment of
true, honest belief.

And, so He has, and now
you understand that
the prayers of a housefly
have stayed your hand.

So, it doesn’t matter how
great or how small,
God listens to each of us,
one and all.”  

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016

when she was sick,
or sometimes when
she got her period,
she would lay in the
bathtub.

she would ask me
to come and talk
with her while
she did this,
and I would.

we would talk about
everything and nothing,

all the while
I would look at her and
marvel.

her skin is the color of milk,
mottled with freckles
like droplets of honey.

and, there were places that were pink,
of course
but I was always fascinated,
at these moments,
with her toes, flushed with blood
from the warmth of the water.

with those toes she can flip the drain,
letting out water,
work the faucet,
adding just a little more hot,
they would crinkle and pop
as she flexed them,

working the drain a final time,
she stands, closes the curtain,
starts the shower.

that’s my cue.

I stand, stretch and yawn,
feeling more sated somehow
now than when we have ***,
I make my way to
the linen closet,
and return faithfully
to my porcelain perch

with a towel.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016

I ate lunch at Taco Bell this afternoon.
As I was people watching,
I noticed a guy who looked
just like "Chief" Bromden.
He was working on a burrito
and looking forlorn.
As he took his biggest bite,
the bite that signified
his commitment
to enjoying that burrito,
all the guts fall out of it.

He was visibly upset by this
and embarrassed as well.
It made me think that
such a happening is universal.

Hot, gooey pizza toppings
or burrito guts have fallen
in our collective laps or
bounced off of our shirts
and onto the floors
of a million restaurants
between us.

It ***** and often
it produces that feeling
we get in our stomachs
when we’ve become the center
of unwanted attention;
even if no one is watching.
This guy had the saddest face
I’d ever seen.
It was really depressing.
But, in the end,
I found myself hoping
that he’d smother me
with a pillow if ever he
found me to be the
victim of an unnecessary
lobotomy.

**** you, Nurse Rached.

*
-JBClaywell

©P&ZPublications; 2016