I wish that it were
easier to write poems
rife with scientific names
of flora and fauna,

verses that spoke of
romantic cities, their
breathtaking views.

Adventure that I’d be
hopeless to describe with
such mediocre vocabulary,
vernacular, or verbiage.

Alas,

I can only heave ashtrays
full of charred butts,
empty bottles, the contents
drank until drunk.

I write cinder block passages
in these pages, so that they
might outweigh my thoughtless,
yet most sincere,
insides.

I can only tell you
what I know, what I knew
or wish I did,

so that I might clear
the breech of fired
ordinance,
chambering the next
round and scanning
for
a target.


*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

You put on your flowered
summer dress,
the one that swishes
around your calves as
you walk.

I’ll put on my shirt,
the color of mulberry
wine.

We’ll pack a picnic lunch
and sit on the steps
of the library.

You’ll sit on the step
above mine,
your knees pulled up.

I’ll sit a step
below you and gaze at
your pink anklebones,
sandals set aside.

We’ll eat salami slices,
cheese, and grapes,
sipping apple-beer from
red, sweating cans.

The back of my wine-colored
shirt will darken with
the heat of the afternoon.

I’ll reach over and rub the firm
line of your ***** as it rests under
stretched-smooth cotton.

We’ll be mindless of the heat.

You’ll kiss me;
our mouths warm with
the spices from the salami
and cheese.

We won’t mind.

Leftovers stowed,
we’ll sit in the car,
turning the A/C up full.
relishing the cool.

We’ll retreat from the sun,
contented and cooled once more
to create our own
summer storm.

*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

still crippled
and half-crazed
from a day’s worth
of backbiting and
in-fighting amongst
the family,

we’ve separated
ourselves from
ourselves saying:

‘you go left;
we’ll go right
because nothing
else is and that’s
the ******* fact.’

so,
as the sun sets,
the sons and I
make a slight return
to the diner where
I’d eaten breakfast
with friends.

we,
my man-cubs
and I, ate well
and quietly,
with thoughts
of repentance
in mind while we
watched the wild hares
frolic in the clover
outside ourselves
and the window.

having supped
and washed the
the sweat from our
brows,
we returned from the
wilderness of our separate
adventures
to the lanes and fairways
of domesticity.

we,
not He.
are the gods
of our domain.

and,
there has been
enough of breast-beating
and forked-tongue seething
for this particular
earthly rotation.

if only,
it could have
stopped before
I’d absorbed
the sourness of
what was said to
me in the parking
lot of the pre-dawn
diner; before that
first cup of coffee.

we,
us three gods,
my sons and I
return home to
await our goddesses,

forgetting our
Buddhist bacon,
our Hindu eggs,
and our chalices
of Catholic, Apostolic
chocolate milk.

instead, we remember
that I’ve already
disappointed God
once today and I’m
reminded of this by
the heartache of sorrows
bestowed upon my lover,

and,
by the heartburn
of that diner’s finest
bowl of Voodoo chili.


*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

Time moves quickly,
faster than one
thinks is so.

The home is
hollowed to
house.

(It’s time for
us to go.)

Almost ten years,
we’ve been here
and the roots
they’ve grown
deep.

We’ve broken
memory’s tendrils
and sought another
place to sleep.

It’s been the only
roof that my young
one has known.

He’ll have his own
bedroom,
passing the small
hours all
alone.

It’s a hope that he
enjoys it,
his own space down
the hall.

I’d beg for all his
nights to pass
fearless,
not one second,
none at all.

The bookshelves
sit empty,
all my treasures
have been stowed.

They’re all boxed
and labeled,
bound for new
abode.

The tendrils
of memory wrap
around this home
tonight.

But,
where we are
together
is home.

And,
it’s here for
a few more
nights.

*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

The buttons undone.

The first cuff is turned.

The second.

The third.

Just past
the elbow.

The sweat collects
in the crook
of the arm,
like tiny rivers
falling into a
super-heated
sea.

The day’s heat
has soaked the
cloth of the shirt,
sticking to broad
back.

The evening’s barbs
and a game of ‘the dozens’
gone too far
has heated minds
past
boiling.

Fingers curl,
turning to ore.

Thumbs tuck themselves
across the second joints
of the first two
phalanges.

Ore becomes iron,
becomes ordinance,
rage becomes rocketry.

Here it comes…

Fire.

Five.  



*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

There is nothing
to it at all.

All I have to do
is jump.

Let myself fall.

Exhale all the
air from my lungs;
fill them deeply
once
more,

hold.

Step off
the edge.

Will I land on the rocks below?

Or soar?

Those are the options.

And, I get to
decide.

*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

Those beautiful tendrils of smoke
that halo the heads of the regular
joes; their ***** weighing heavy on
mahogany and brass barstool.

That beautiful, marbled piece of beef
that sizzles in the cast iron pan on
the burner in the back as the jacket
fries boil in oil in a wire basket
beside.

Wanting to be here,

There.

With those fellas.

waiting on that meal.

Willing to give anything
for the opportunity to embark
on such a Bukowski-esque quest

like steak frites
served up steaming
with sidecars of bourbon
maybe a beer or two;
cigarette smoke.

Elevated cholesterol,
maybe a choked-upon
piece of gristle,
lungs full of carcinogens,
maybe a nodule of cancer.

We won’t talk of this ****.

We’ll talk about the ***** of
the lasses that stroll by our barstools,
heedless to us in the least.

We’ll howl and drool like beasts

(once they’re out of earshot.)

Eventually, we’ll all die anyway.

Eat a steak,
some potatoes
fried in duck fat.

Pat a nice ***,
if you can.

Fall in love.

Choke upon the
wealth of your

satisfaction.


*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications