We evangelize to antagonize
these days,
failure to recognize
the humanity that we
bastardize while we
editorialize,
abandoning our personhood,
we fail to stand on love’s platform
in favor of being right,
which doesn’t always mean
correct.

The goal should be to
connect,
mayhap, to direct our
audience to our highest plane,
together.

(Arguments occur at 30,000 or 15 feet.)

But,
what happens when
planes collide in midair?
In midstream?
In mid-sentence?

What happens when
We lose our right to
be right,
because we’ve lost our
ability to listen carefully,
to speak carefully,
and to proceed,
regardless,
with kindness?

We’ve all been ordained
to the bully-pulpit.

Convinced that correctness
lives in our own mind,
written as our own gospel,
inside our own lives,
yet,
hidden inside of  
the blue glow of the #hashtag.

This,
this fools tool,
is the ordinance
of the culture war.

And, it is not
fatal,
(or maybe it is.)

is not effective,

(often)

is  not
#enough.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications

they sit
anxious,
attitudinal,
replete in
hospital gowns,
almost glowing,
angelic in their
whiteness.

below the knee,
the young queen
bee wears peach
fuzz.

my own grasshopper
has a forest of leg hair.

(puberty' s gift)

they look
at one another
not quite
like two strangers
at a singles bar,
but almost.

the moment dies
seconds after birth.

they transition from
insects,
scrawny, gangly teenagers;
becoming hawks.

now,
they perch,
staring at one another,
eyes full of defiance.

each one measuring
the other's plight
against their own.

inspections concluded,
they retreat,
separately,
each
back into their
own fauna of
electronic isolationism.

*

-JBClaywell

People forget.
It's not happening
to them.
They don't live in Flint
or
Detroit.
A lot of us have
seen very little of
The things we're railing
against.
The Abyss is too dark
To really stare into.
But, despite the fact that
I have kids to feed,
and real adult responsibility to keep in check,
I'm getting overwhelmed a bit
by having to come to terms with
the fact that we, collectively have lost the ability to treat one
another like people.

I refuse to participate.
I'd rather die.

If you're hungry...You get half of my sandwich. Automatically.

If you're thirsty...You get something to drink. Automatically.

If you need to talk... I'll listen. Automatically.

You don't have to agree with this, with me.

But, I'll look out for you. Because you're a human being, like me.

I hope you would do the same.

*

-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications

He wanted a couple
of McChicken sandwiches,
so off we went.

He was fidgety and bored
at home;
had already watched a
DVD and...

it was time to
get out, into something
else for awhile.

Having placed our order,
I followed my grown-man
son to a table of his choosing.

We sat and waited for our
lunch to arrive.

The placard at the end
of the table said: #36.

While we ate,
we chatted about whatever
happened to be rattling around
in his head at the moment.

(I was only half-listening.)

Two men, at two different tables
near ours were having virtually
the same conversation into two
different cell phones.

The white man,
with the red beard
said:

"All I need is a few more dollars and I can make it back to Kansas City. I tried yesterday, to catch a Greyhound and they told me that I didn't have enough to make it all the way there, so I'm still here. I've been here about six days.  Yesterday was my last day at the shelter. Now, they're giving preference to veterans, so last night I was outside. But, at least the veterans are warm. I'm not a veteran so..."

The black man
in the hooded
sweatshirt said:

"I just got off the phone with my sister. She said that if I could come up with $20 for gas, she would come down from Kansas City and get me; take me back up to her house so I could see Mom. Mom's in the hospital, she ain't doin' so good, man."

My boy went on talking about doodads and thingamajigs;
movies full of mayhem and video games and their magic.

(The artistic, autistic wanderings of his thoughts)

He ate his McChicken sandwiches,
paying no attention to the two men
nearby.

My own mind wanders  
to thoughts of an ATM;
two twenty-dollar bills
given away,

wanders still to the last
ten dollars in my wallet.

I know that my son and I
are supposed to go to
the local video store
after lunch.

Which of these three men
should I give my last ten
bucks to?

Should I keep it for myself?

The boy is using the smallest,
crispiest French fries to poke
holes in the wax paper that his
sandwiches had been wrapped in.

I smile at him,
sigh,
and say: “Thanks.”

“For what?” he asks.

“For making that decision for me.”

“It would’ve been a hard one for me to make on my own.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” he says,
looking confused.

“I know. It’s okay.
Finish up and we’ll
go look at some movies,
maybe some comics.”

My son slurps
his soda-pop,
crunches his
final fry.

We make our way
outside into the
bright sunshine of
late afternoon.

*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

He poured himself
just the smallest
bit of coffee.

The remainder of
last night’s ***,
really.

It had sat on the
burner all night,
was now dark,
thick, ink-like.


He’d fallen asleep
in the chair after
she’d left.

The angry words
sang in the air,
whippoorwills in
his dreams;

his sleep challenged
by their flocking;
his feelings.

It was snowing
when his eyes had
finally shut themselves
against the dawn of her
departure.

As he looked at
the front steps,
the new snow fell,

(just the smallest bit…)

filling in the
footprints of her exit

with finality.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications

the center
of The Universe
and
the center
of
nowhere
at all.

This city...

Saint Joseph,
Missouri.

like an apartment
complex
or
a cul-de-sac
built by
The Hand of
God,
right
in the
bottom
left-hand drawer
of The Devil's
bill-paying
desk.

we walk
our dogs
on
long leashes
making sure that
they can ****
in our neighbor's
yard.

we cultivate
red-state
politics
and blue-plate
specials,
complaining
that our crime-rate
and our cholesterol
are too high.

we're the tenderloin
capital
of the world;
and we closed
the door
on that debate
as well as
several
others.

once,
not that
long ago,
we put it
to a vote,
whatever
it was...

it hardly
matters
anymore,
but only
18%
said: "aye"
and only
37%
said anything
at all.

the ballots
must've been
kept in the
lockbox

in the
bottom
right-hand drawer
of
The Devil's
bill-paying
desk.
*

-JBClaywell

Do not forget  
that this is all there is.

This moment in time,  

these years,
this spectacle,  
this speculation,  
and this separation  
is all that you get.  

This life is leaving you.  

Exiting with every single exhalation  
regardless of your intellect,  
ignorance,  
or deliverance.  

First-world,  
third-world,  
shine or *******,  
it doesn't matter.  

The planet will continue  
to spin long after  
you're gone;  

Create,
craft,
conquer.

The entirety
of The Universe
resides
in
you.