Today, I went to the donut place that has had a couple of copies of my book for sale. They’re down one copy. That’s an interesting story and has some pretty interesting follow-up involved. The follow-up took place this morning. It involves a conversation with the person whom had purchased one of the aforementioned copies of ‘Gray Spaces”.  I’ll do my best to detail it here:

Ken, one of the oldboys at the donut place has purchased one of the copies of my book that Matt, the owner of the shop, has placed in there. He and I were talking over donuts and coffee one morning. Ken’s a bit of an opinionated loudmouth and gets on people’s nerves now and then. Sometimes such that people tell him where to go or choosing the higher ground, ignore him and treat him as more of an annoyance than anything else.
But, I like him.  He’s a former East-Coaster, specifically an old-time Boston guy. He sounds great. He’s a nay-ba-hood guy who just might have ‘pahked his cah in Hahvahd Yahd’ once or twice.
Anyway, he asked me what I did for work and I told him that I was a social worker until recently and that I was also a writer. He made some smart-assed remark about how I couldn’t possibly be a real writer as I had not published a book. I asked him how he knew I hadn't. His response was typical. He suggested that I looked like the type of guy who probably wouldn't be able to publish a book.  So, I showed him a copy of “Gray Spaces” making sure that he took note of the author’s photo on the back. It was an interesting thing, because as soon as Ken was convinced that I had actually written the book, he laid out a ten-spot. I handed him the book. That was the cover price. I didn’t realize that Donut Matt had wanted to charge a bit more to cover his shipping cost. Matt got a little cooked on the deal but was cool overall.
Ken had his book, Matt had ten bucks, I had sold a book. Life was looking pretty alright right then.

A few days later, I’m back in the shop. Ken comes in and he sits down at my table. He’s usually one to sit at the table with the other oldboys but sometimes Ken’s mouth gets him into trouble and he winds up being mildly and quietly ostracized by the other fellows in that they ignore him as their conversation marches ever onward.  

Ken sits with me. We, he and I are in a corner booth. I have coffee and a plate full of small cake donuts. Ken pours his own coffee, orders a cinnamon roll, pays and sits down. Now, I know that Ken has a good heart but he’s a nay-ba-hood guy. He grew up playing the dozens, he’s East Coast. He’s a pain in the ***, I like him, so he ain’t gonna bother me none. Plus, I’m curious…  I ask:

So, did you like the book?
No.
No?
That’s right, no.   But, I can’t seem to put it down.
Really?
Yeah, really.
Why not?
I don’t know. It keeps making me stop and think. And, it turns out that the stories or whatever you call ‘em; they make me see you in a different light.
Yeah? How’s that?
Well, you’re mad about some stuff.
Yeah, sometimes. But, I also like a lot of stuff. I see the good stuff where someone else might see garbage.
Yeah, I can see where that’s true.
So, is there any particular piece of writing that you did like or that made you think or feel a certain way?
No. But, there are those stories in there that made me feel bad that I give you such a hard time about opening the door and razz you about walking funny and all. I promise you, I’ll never do that again.

(Ken has a reputation for razzing folks in that shop. He’s not too nice about it sometimes either. But, there was a time that he slipped and fell on the ice last winter. He broke his hip pretty good and was laid up until March of this year. He recounted the story of his fall and subsequent recovery and said that now he has to move even more slowly and deliberately than he did before the accident. He’s 85 years old and has just now developed a sense of empathy regarding mobility concerns.)

We continued our conversation:

I like it when you give me the business. It gives me an excuse to give it right back to you.
Yeah?
Yeah. You don’t bother me. Why don’t you use some of this newly discovered empathy and be a bit nicer to the staff here?
Maybe I will.

We finished our respective breakfasts and I got up to go next door to The Goodwill Store. I wanted to look at books that I might give to some of my friends for Christmas.
Ken watched me go. He got up from our table and moved to join the other fellas.
As I walked past the window he rapped on it. When I looked in his direction he flipped me the bird.
How poetic.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2019

Thankful for what?
I've lost myself and gained an insight into my own stupidity, my own arrogance. I think that I think too much. I think that I know too much. I think I'm right much of the time. (I'm not.)

What am I? Who am I?
I feel like I know who I am.
But, I need to be something too.
And, that, friends, is the lizard-faced terror of our Capitalist society.

Some of us know who we are and that is definition enough.
Others of us need more than one definition.
Poet.
Writer.
Raconteur.
Able to stave off poverty,
socioeconomic savior?
Survivalist instructor to the less-fortunate?

What am I now?
Not very much at all.

This is not a good line of thinking.

My self-talk is not very good these days.

I want to make something happen.

Doors opening or closing,
is the hell of this particular hallway.

There are no open doors.
Every one of them is locked.

My kicking is bootless
as are my cries.

(Positively Shakespearean!)

I'm waiting for someone who carries a key.
This is not my style.
I want to wreck some rooms.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019

Yesterday,
I sat in a common area
of the local university and wrote.

A student
in a power-chair
would glide by
now and then.

I liked the hiss of the wheelchair’s tires
on pavement
or
inside on the hard floor.
I liked the hum
of the motor that accompanies.

I can recognize these sounds
for what they are
almost immediately.

To me,
the sounds are comfortable,
they have a familiarity
despite the fact that they
are not my own sounds.

They are not the click
and
clatter of my crutches
and
I wouldn’t presume to identify with them,
yet they bring about a kindred.

They, these hisses and hums,
bring forth a needed feeling of
‘not-alone-ness’
that I have come to relish of late.

To me,
these are the sounds of,
at the very least,
a modicum of success
and
always of perseverance.
  
Otherwise,
we might all be werewolves
out for a stroll under the light
of the full moon.

I grab small gladnesses where I am able.

The streets are full of wild things
that snap,
snarl,
and
sometimes bite.

I walk among them,
having written of small kindness,
things familiar if strange.

They let me pass unharmed,
still warmed by feelings of belonging.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPbublications 2019

You have to get it right.
Except for when you don’t.
It’s okay to have ****** it all up.
Just don’t live there.

Mistake.

We tried.
We had an opportunity
to do some taking.
We missed.
It happens.

I have to remind myself
all
the
time.

*
-JBClaywell
©PZPublications 2019

A lot of people look familiar.

At this point I think
that I might have seen
everyone in town at least once.

I know a lot of people too.
However,
I feel like very few people know me.
I like it that way.

I’m pretty open
in regard to myself and my life.
It is, after all, what makes its way
into my art.

How could I be a good storyteller
if I didn’t tell true stories?  

Still, I tend to keep to myself
more often than not.

My small family is all I need;
all I really want.

I do whatever I am able
to make sure that everything I do
means something to someone.
Sometimes it’s just me.

Cooper taught me to look at friendship through a different prism.
He showed me how to find
different significance
in the way the lights and colors
moved through
the time and space that had been allotted
them in any given moment.

I’m supposed to be able to see the importance of a single moment;
to see the history
while it’s still the present
and
to live in the moment
all while saving it for posterity.

Time travel is possible if you show your friends enough love.

Morrison and I spoke of
the aforementioned
at great length
the last time we were together.

I recounted times when I used to believe
that the only friends I had,
the only true friends I had,
were those people who would
regularly interrupt my sleep schedule
in the name of adventure,
overflow my ashtrays,
empty my refrigerator
all while turning that night
into the next day.

Everything served over-easy,
greasy with butter,
and
spiced with Tabasco sauce.

Our friendships were and are real enough,
but indigestion,
Insomnia,
omnipresence?

The requirements of my youth
are overworked
and simply incorrect.

A real friend can be quietly encouraging,
or someone who leaves you alone
for weeks at a time.
Remaining ready,
diligently able to resume
at a moment’s notice.
Picking up where you left off
like only seconds had passed.

I’ve talked this talk,
with and about
Cooper,
Clark,
Morrison,
Otto,
Mulvaney,
Nelson,
Christy,
and
Bremer.

Some of these,
I see once or twice a week,
others once or twice a year.

We love one another nonetheless.
We are friends after all.

This.

The very essence
of this line of thinking
is what fosters the kinds of interpersonal relationships
all human beings long for,
should strive for.
It is the definition that is listed
in the dictionary of my heart.

It is the manifesto
that Cooper laid out before me
at 4 o’clock in the morning.

We were at Denny’s having breakfast.
The eggs were runny.
The hash browns were covered in queso,
gravy,
or both.

Because we all have to die sometime.
Why not surround ourselves with
friends?  

*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications

We’ll season our greetings
and
salt one another’s
wounds for free.

We compare our flavorless
lives,
without ever investing
in one another
or
ourselves.

No deposit,
no return.

Give as good as you get,
or better yet,
give better than they deserve.

You’ll get more than you think
in return.

To be leaving,
to have left,
to start over,
to be bereft.

What else is there
but to walk away?
So sorry a state
that only God
might stay.

There was no mercy,
there was no sin,
shook dust from boot,
beginning again.

We’ve set the fires,
the windows are broken,
only shards remain,
the building is gutted,
the staff is insane,
where once we cared
only shells remain.

Oh,
the night is a swollen
wineskin,
the moon hangs high,
I only
wanted to live,
was
left behind to die.

Sated on hatred,
collided with skin,
bones are broken,
teeth are pulled,
pliers grip
incisor again.

The clock is punched,
its wires yanked,
limited options mulled,
the senses dulled.

The hands are dealt,
the aces laid down,
all bets are lost.
they’ve come to collect,
my wallet is empty,
my life
is wrecked.

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2019

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