They are called cowbirds.

I did not know this until
just a few weeks ago.

The neighbor-lady told me.

I told her that they made me think
of those fish that you see during
documentaries about the ocean;
the fish that cluster and move
and
bend the shape of the whole school
so that it catches the light that is just
visible below the surface
and
is just
bright enough to scare the sharks or
dolphins enough into thinking that
the entire school is one big fish that
might do well at fighting back against
dolphins or sharks,
so they end up leaving that particular school
of fish alone and look for easier prey.

“Yeah. They’re called cowbirds”,
she said again.

So, I asked her if she came out to look at the pinks
and purples  and oranges of this sunrise and I asked her if
she thought that the ***** snowdrifts looked like coral reefs
now that they’ve melted in the sun that we’ve had in the afternoons.

I told her again that the coral reef snowdrifts and the way that they’ve melted
are the reason that the cowbirds made me think of those fish from the ocean documentaries and I’m sorry I can’t remember what those fish are called,
but
aren’t the colors of the sunrise beautiful?

“So, yeah, they’re called cowbirds”, she said one last time as she turned to go back inside.

“Now I know what a cowbird is”, I thought.

And, in spite of the black and grey dirt on them,
I still thought that the snowdrifts looked like coral reefs as they melted,
and
I still thought that the lavender sky,
with its pink and orange laser beams
was beautiful while the cowbirds swarmed
and
their inkblot flocks
coiled
and
spooled through an ocean of blue ,
my brain wandered around the ocean
and wondered if those same types of silver-scaled fish
made like the cowbirds while avoiding
the dolphins and the sharks
as though they were seafaring
raptors.


*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019

Sometimes there’s nothing left but the wolves.
cornered
confused
concussive silences
broken by howls
rivers of bile
iron filings
choked upon truths
landslide mind
sleep apnea
retinal scan
unidentified
alone
rivers of isolation
mercury tears
that don’t fall
they well
stay in the sockets
waiting for the next wave
numbness
sterilized
mechanical
depressive state
mauled.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications

Guy told me that he was sure that Michael J. Fox and I had the same disease.
He wanted to know why I wasn’t shaking and convulsing all over the place.
Was it because of some new medication?
I tried my best to explain the differences between Cerebral Palsy and Parkinson ’s disease.

None of it seemed to make much difference,
and that,
in itself,
was okay too.

Guy was apologetic,
not for getting his information wires crossed,
but for my troubles as he saw them.

“Man, I’m so sorry that you have to live like that.”

I told him that it was what I was used to,
that it wasn’t that big a deal.

“Man, I just think it must be so hard.”

I told him that it was not easy some days,
that it was what I knew though,
that I was okay,
doing my thing,
just out seeing a band play
some music.

Something must’ve gotten through whatever haze he was in,
because he began to apologize for talking to me
about what he called,
my problems.

“No, sir.”
“A question is just a question. It never hurts, it only helps fill in the gaps.”
He said that he was sorry anyway.

I told him not to worry about it.

He asked if I liked the band that was playing later that night.

I told him that I did,
very much indeed.

He said that he wished he had a ticket,
but was trying to hear whatever he could
standing out in the cold,
next to the tour-buses,
smoking.

I finished my cigarette,
said I was going back inside.

He apologized,
‘for bothering me’,
he said.

“Nah,
you make the world
more interesting”,
I said.

And,
it was
true.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019

In the midst of a memory
that is not much more
than a wisp of smoke
after the candle has
been blown out.

The scent of the candle,
once extinguished,
is pallid compared to
its acrid brethren whose
tendrils ache for the ceiling.

As the exhalation
escapes the lips,
the small
flame winks into nothingness,

the smoke reminds us all
what a monstrous adversary
fire can be.  

Fire,
like the pain of this
incendiary,
if fleeting memory:

The raven-haired
librarian,
her tresses now streaked
with fine, silver filaments,
spoke of children
long ago buried.

(mine)


“You know, your daughters hold a special place in my heart.
I think of them often”, she says.

It is easy to speak truths,
when they are so honest and real
that they hang in the air like smoke
or cause a minor burn
like a palm held over a candle
for too long.

“I named one of them after Holden Caulfield’s sister”, I say.

“But, her middle name is all yours.”

That second sentence may have been a spark
in my mind,
that never was combustible enough to
issue forth as spoken,

but it remains true nonetheless,
librarian,

as true as smoke,
as true as fire,
as true as…

you.


*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019

I’d like more
than one death knell,
I’d like a
personal
bottle of lightning,
that I’ve caught for
my very own.

I’d give up that
little **** of a
rat-terrier if
it could,
somehow,
transmogrify
into a wolf
or
a panther.

I’d like
a jet-black
Camero,
with tires
made of fire
and seats made
of smoke.

I think that
a little toxic-waste
is good for you.

(keeps ya sharp, yeah?)

I think
that a man,
a woman,
hell,
any human
worth a ****
ought to be able
to ride into battle
on a goat, a *******,
or a *******
llama

and

know in their
hearts that they are the master
of their own destiny.

It’s a rough sea,
it always will be.

That’s life.

Be sad,
mad,
a little depressed,

but,

stay here,
because there’s
kielbasa sandwiches
with mustard and
onions.

There are people
that love you,
there are books,
songs,
flicker shows
to see.

The sharks bite,
the octopi might
squeeze,
the rays might sting.

None of it means
anything,
if you don’t…


Take off the floaties
and swim.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019

Move the chains,
shift the paradigm
in such a way
that it might shift
tectonic plates,
alter the *******
coastline!


Change the channel,
alter your state!

(shift, alter, change!)

So,
what now?

Cut ties with
all your life’s
toxicity?

What’s that look like?

Under the covers?
Staring at a screen?
Petting your cat?

Paddling
the online ocean
of lazy lies.

It’s safer to swim with sharks.

At least their teeth are honest.


*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2018

I am neither kept nor caught.

Not a rabbit in the snare,
not the fox in the chicken coop.
I am here, with her,
not fooling her,
myself,
or anyone else.

If anything,
I am like a shark.
I have to keep moving
or I can’t breathe.  

Hunting stories;
an understanding of humanity
that continues to elude me,
in my shark-state.  

She lets me swim
these streets and alleys.
Hunting ideas for the notebook.
Telling all of the other fish my stories.

Sea lions I’ve bitten,
stingray tails.
How they might’ve tasted.
Their terrified eyes.

These are good stories.

They’re not always true,
but it’s always a little more fun
when they are.

I’ll just keep moving.
Swimming the currents
of this municipality’s ocean.

Sometime later,
I’ll feast.

(Blood is always in the water.)  

Pen and ink.
Tooth and fin.  

It’ll be a frenzy.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2018