Something or someone
had taken a large portion
of his ear.

The top of it
was just plain
gone.

Had it been chewed,
swallowed?

Had it been thrown out
with the kitchen trash?

Dogs ripping plastic
during the small hours
to get to this sweet, salty morsel
of human flesh?

Had he screamed?
Had it once been sewn
back on?
Bandages soaked red?
The stitches failed?
The wound gone necrotic?

I stared at it.
I was obvious.
It couldn’t be helped.

We shook hands.
He left.

But, that missing
part of his right ear
will stay with me
for awhile.

It’s likely that I’ll find
that ear’s ghost
listening to this poem
from somewhere
within the creases
of my
jacket pocket.

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2019

These pages were
dog-eared
but,
really I was amazed
that they were still
there at all.

If I told
you the truth
I’d have to say that
I was flabbergasted
to see that the whole
bookshelf  hadn’t
combusted.

The pages with
folded corners,
those were my
favorites.

The words set upon
those leafs,
those single,
gossamer surfaces
taken, culled
from all the reams
in the world,
those were firebrands
to me,
to my soul.

Even thumbing through
their undamaged brethren
those incandescent selections
generate a glow
that is felt
as noumenon,
worldly, real,
yet ethereal
nonetheless.

I read on,
savoring
the
warmth.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019

935

This is what it says
on the front
and
on the back
of
my newest
bookmark.

On one side
the number is green,
the other side
shows a
red number.

It used to hang
from the rearview
mirror.

My car was in the shop.

The problem was minor,
but set me back by $65
nonetheless.

So,
I paid $65
for bookmark
#935.

The cashier swiped
my card and didn’t
look me in the eye.

I swiped
my new bookmark
and felt just a
microscopic
bit better
about
the
money.

Not
really
though.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019

At this point,
life feels like
A table set for
20.

There’s only
one
lemon ****.

Everyone wants
a piece.

Someone’s going to end up
with a mouthful of blood.

(Spitting out teeth.)

Chew,
while you still
can.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2019

From Journal: September 2019

Some things are simply a matter of midnight melancholy while others are a direct result of the full moon. Sometimes a wish gets made mid-sneeze, mid-yawn, or mid-sentence, getting somehow ruined. Who really understands how all of these things work? I know that I don’t. I probably never will. But, I keep trying. Don’t we all? One way or another.

Some nights have teeth, fangs that sink into flesh. Other nights sing sweetly. No one really knows which night that the given day will lay upon their doorstep.

What most people tend to forget is that they can almost always exercise at least a modicum of control. This is neither fate nor destiny.   It is simply life and it happens to us as much as because of us. This line of thinking is easy to let slide. I try my best to remember.

Apologize when you must. Never say that you’re sorry for something that is out of your control. Be as kind as you are able. Make your mistakes. Learn from them. Hell, just learn. Keep learning.

We’re all out here, following our own humanity around. Like something we keep on a leash. We walk beside it. All of it is lost art. A sonnet. A painting. Something Michelangelo or Aristotle left abandoned in their basement.  A statue, somehow alive. It scratches its ***** and ***; giving its fingers a sniff. It won’t look you in the eye, but neither will it apologize for being what it is. It may very well be more human than you.


Soundless, except for my clicking. Alone. Walking the streets of Downtown. I parked at The Corby and just walked. Today was noisy. People talked to me at every turn.

Earlier today, I was at a bookshop. A lady and her young daughter stopped me. The little girl just had to know all of my ‘why’s’. (Why do you walk like that? Why do you use those things? What happened to you?) I really didn’t feel like going into it, but I couldn’t see any way out of it either. The little girl was earnest as hell and her mom seemed fairly insistent. I felt like I was on display, a lesson in a classroom. However, I couldn’t get the chip to stay on my shoulder. I don’t like being that way anyway. It’s a drag. People mean pretty well most of the time.

As a side note: Pops saw much of this interaction and sat in the van looking rather smug. He looked like he knew that he had raised me right. He did so, but I really wanted to be a **** right then. I don’t think he’s ever seen that much of ‘the thing that happens’. He liked it way more than I did. The lady made her daughter thank me for answering her questions. I felt like an employee.

Lots of depressive times and thoughts. Most of these are still tied to the passing of my mother. I’m not really angry these days, just frustrated. Nothing except home time seems like it’s going the way that I want it to.  
Something needs to change and I’m not sure what it is. I want to do something different. I want to do something that doesn’t force me to care about others so much. But, even that feels wrong. I love doing what I do. I love people. I like the distance though. It keeps me even. I need distance a lot. I’m no  good if I have to go for long periods making people feel comfortable or whatever you’d call it. I get wound too tightly and have to get away.


-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2019

It was said
that I’d received
an education here.

Survival seemed
the only curriculum
as far as
my young boy’s brain
could tell.

Ellison’s red bricks,
yellow/green floors were my own hellscape,
no escaping the addition,
or multiplication
of small angry fists
into soft stomach,
chubby cheek.

The respite of recess,
I recall the lowing
of unseen cows,
the smell of manure
on a breeze,
wafting past the swingset.

Milk cartons,
emptied,
filled again
with earth and seed,
milkweed.  

Butterflies,
adult lies.
blackened eyes.

Grasshoppers humming,
buzzing,  
the plink and plop
of  
gravel-rocks
tossed one at a time
into the storm drain.

This bench wasn't here
40 years ago,
yet the ghosts of my childhood
find my lap nonetheless.

As my own children
now swing, climb or
otherwise enjoy the equipment,
I remain haunted by memories
of people lost to me
for what feels like centuries.  

They unload their baggage
(and my own)
at my feet.

Was I ever a child,
A schoolboy,
Really?

Bessie tells me
it was so.

I suppose it’s time
I believed her.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2019

In the places where
the water moves swiftly
over rocks,
under sky…

While not cloudless,
it is perfect nonetheless.

The clouds present
are sparse,
scattered like seasonings across
the endless blue,
served up sashimi-style
raw, cerulean,
just for me.

There are ions
in these places,
released by movement,
mist, mineral.

They fill lung
and eye
with prisms,
a freshness not
consumed in
ages.

So,
I find a seat
at God’s supper-table,
pick up my fork,
begin to eat the air,

which is enough
right then
to sustain me.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019