I enjoy the newness
of people that I see
out in public.
Moreso, I enjoy
the newness of couples
who have only recently
discovered one another.

The other day
I spied a man going
into the convenient mart.

My wife was inside,
fetching soft drinks for a
lunch outing we had planned;
I was waiting in the car.

The man was listening to huge, white headphones.
He was wearing a ‘Boyz N’ the Hood’ sweatsuit.
It was purple, with bright yellow lettering.

He was struggling to don his leopard print mask
without losing his headphones.
It was an interesting scenario to watch
as it unfolded;
so, I watched.

The only things going through my mind,
were the man’s obvious commitment to whatever
song he was listening to,
and
His willingness to represent such a colorful
display to pay homage to an obviously
beloved film.

I guess I was staring.

“What the **** are you looking at, ******!?”

I didn’t say anything.

Instead, I took silent accountability for my
perceived disrespect.
I looked away.

Later,
that afternoon,
I began to brood over
the incident,
the perceived slight,
the actual slight I’d absorbed in return.

Did I deserve it?
Did he deserve a pass?
Does any of this matter?

I let it go.

Later
that night,
I ran into a new couple;
two of my friends,
whom had found,
discovered one another.

They were seated near me
at a music venue.

We chatted some, between songs.

While the band played,
I watched my two, separate friends
enjoy their outing and their transition
into
couplehood.

Lots of smiles;
she rubbed his thigh;
he played drums along with the band
on her shoulders.
She laughed.

I looked.
I looked some more.
I laughed too.

It was a nice thing to see,
to witness,
to watch develop.

No one said:
“What are you looking at, ******!?”
They barely noticed me at all.

That evening remains a nice thing to recollect
into the pages of this notebook.

(which I’m doing now)

Almost all the pages are written upon.
Soon, it will be time for a another
notebook.

It’ll be new.
I’ll flip through the pages,
feeling the newness,
hearing the creaking of the cover
as I open it
for the first time.

My current notebook,
is comfortable, broken in,
easy to write in.

Sometimes, I fold the cover over,
resting my elbow on the corner
while I write.

The spine was long-ago broken;
so
my notebook doesn't mind
bearing my body-weight
along with
the weight of the words
inside.

My thoughts,
now
are on the lunch
I’d enjoyed with my family
that afternoon.

We sat around the kitchen table.

We’d picked up some take-out;
decided to go home and watch a
movie after we ate.

The wife and I sat
on the couch.

She rubbed my thigh.
I draped my arm across
her shoulder.

We looked at one another,
instead of the television.

There was twenty years of history
that flashed between us in
what was likely 20 seconds.

Still new.
Still lovely.
Still worthwhile.
Still a discovery.

A thread in the tapestry
of
our life,
created on the loom
of our love
during a lazy
Saturday
In
November.

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020

There is little notice
of the eddies of leaves,
trapped and circling
in the corners
of
chain-link.

Stepped on slices
of white bread;
blackened
banana peels
litter the walkways.

Someone has fed
the prison mascot,
a vagrant cat,
a volunteer mouser
for the state
of
Missouri.

A sergeant kicks
the little mound
of dry food,
sending it skittering
into the dewy grass,
wasted.

There is a pale pink
to the sky.

Leftover sunrise.

Hopefully, other eyes see it too.

“Single file lines into the chow-hall, gentlemen!”

There is little gentleness here.

It’s contraband.

Chewed to pulp,
spat where needed.
A poultice.
An ointment.

Made from the last of the marigolds,
The Susans who’s black-eyes
have healed to a bruised yellow.

Pockets full of pink sky,
cool air,
sober hopefulness.

Stepping gently
into the
caged morning.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications 2020

Lima beans.
Canned asparagus.
Polished stones.
Lint I've collected from the dryer in my home for the last month or so.
Wheat pennies.
Buffalo nickels.
Loaves of pumpernickel bread.
Bone-handled pocket knives.
Names of those whom my family have loved,
buried,
long dead.

Most of these things,
I’ve no problem with.
Some I remember fondly,
some I collect,
some I eat,
others don’t really matter at all.

We enjoy the things that we enjoy.
While we’re here,
we do our best.

Most everything else is insignificant,
of little consequence in our lives.

Certainly less so, than our children,
ourselves, neighbors,
our friends,
our husbands,
or
our wives.

Why then, dear ones,
do we natter and fret so much?

We hem and haw,
wring our hands
stressing over things like
lunch,
a mask,
or
inequality in society,
usually blaming
The Orangutan currently occupying
The Oval Office;
certainly occupying more
than his fair share of our
collective consciousness.

We’ve forgotten how to forget,
how to let it go, doing the best
that we are able,
where we are,
with what we have.

We must remember
ourselves,
our values,
our votes.

Because,
apathy
or laziness
lost 2016
for all of us,
whether we believe it
or not.

So,
I plan to remember,
emphatically,
unequivocally,
unimpeachably,
who I am,
where I come from,
what matters to me more
than anything else.

One
One
Zero
Three
The year,
two-thousand
twenty.

You are you.
I am I.
We are we.

History,
our legacy,
our democracy,
our liberty
is at stake.

These reside
in our hands always,
being more important than
canned asparagus,
polished stones,
or
a pocketful of wheat pennies.

Specifically,
especially so,
on
eleven-three-twenty-twenty.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020

Where have we gone wrong?
Is this wrong?

We can hardly stand to speak to
one another anymore.

Does anyone remember how to
actually use the telephone feature
of the device that they carry
in their pockets?

Is this the future?
Am I living in the past?

How does one stay grounded, centered,
in the moment, these days, these months,
this godforsaken year?

Everything,
every conversation,
even my plate of biscuits & gravy
has been politicized, polarized,
punctuated, with the pugilism of
keystroke pundits.

On most Sunday afternoons,
I sit and compose.

My own musings;
the oatmeal of my mind.
Waiting for Goldilocks,
maybe a bear or three.

Come Monday,
I’m incarcerated for the day,
playfully playing the role
of Counselor
to men with addiction-issues;
an outright aversion to following
the norms of our less-than-gracious
Golden Age.

I might say that I’m playacting,
but I take it all very seriously.
(Not myself, mind you,
the work done inside those iron-gates.)

I refuse to perform with an angry eye,
heart or mind.
Seeking
clarity.
Showing
concern.

Are you a help or a hindrance?

This might be the question
we all could answer,
especially now,
on the downward *****
of
The 21st year
of the 3rd Millienia.

We’ve elected an inept celebrity.

Several of us love that facist fact,
loading out in our flag-adorned F-150s.

(Yee-haw!)

What a shame.
What a sham.
What a shambles our humanity
is in.

Our souls scream for something
that feels like success,
security, surety.

Even those whom are seen
as the least of us;
who vote against their own
self-interests,
they deserve better than
The Beast of Us.

Our faces hidden behind masks,
tearful eyes,
our fellow citizens have died,
our leaders lied,
we rioted, protested,
looted,
in response to jack-booted oppressors.

Confessors?
None.

This battle,
this race of inequity
may never be won.

Still,
we run.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublicarions 2020

I’ve stayed quietly
undiagnosed
for decades now.

Does it even matter anymore?

If I give you my attention,
you might notice the deficit,
you might not.

I wanted to spin out,
to crash out,
to bottom out,
to drop out.

Never could though;
it would have been too terrifying.

To not be able to get away,
to run away,
If things, people, or situations
got away from me.

What if my friends
didn't stay very friendly?

I’ve never pretended
to be very smart.
(Clever? Maybe.)

Baloney sandwiches.
Never steaks.

My married life
saved my physical
life, a fact I can’t deny
even if I wanted to.

Now,
the most terrible, wonderful
rock n’ roll thing I do
is try to stay up until
2 am
on a Saturday night.

I’m too old for that **** these days.
(I do it anyway.)

Trying to hold onto something
young that still resides inside,
I suppose.

I’ll keep holding on.
It’s not a bad thing;
not wrong to do.

Touchstones are important.
People.
Places.
Things.
Songs.

Our barbaric yawps are meant
to be heard over the rooftops.

To indulge in experience,
to give our attention to
as many fleeting things
as our hearts can hold onto,
as our fingers can grasp.

Whitman says that this is why we are here.
I agree.
The meaning of life is present in the oils
That we leave behind,
in our
fingerprints.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020

I guess I caught the ****.

I always thought I might.
Ever since this whole calamity started,
I thought I might end up with it.
I figured that it was just my kind of luck.

The Mean 19 came home to roost.

We were lucky enough to spit it out
14 days later.

It might not even matter,
apparently boredom
&
the greater good
don’t sit well with very many folks.

‘Mandate?’
‘What kind of ****** **** is that?’
‘I want a ******* cheeseburger!’

So,
here they come,
out into our careful weekend wars.

Our mission,
clandestine.

Theirs,
to be casualties before the first round
is fired.
They crash the party,
as loud and overbearing
as a congress of baboons.

They’ll make sure this lasts forever.

‘He brought back football, you know!’
‘Made a lot of us real proud!’

Really?

Well, I’ll be a fly on ****,
or
the head of The Vice President of The United States;
whichever you prefer.

How we howled!

All the while, some 22 y/o marketing genius saw
dollar signs in an investment of fly-swatters
with our team’s logo on it!

‘It’s a liberal-on-the-attack conspiracy’
they cried!
‘Those Socialist ******* knew that fly would be there.’
‘I bet they’d been training flies for months.’

Go ahead,
shout from the rooftops.
Let everyone know what you’ll wear or won’t wear,
how you’ll vote,
how it won’t matter if you do,
or don’t.

For God’s sake,
forget everything you’ve ever been told
&
just shut your stupid mouths.

Cast your ballots quickly and quietly,
then cast yourselves
into the sea.

You’ll never win anyway,
it’s not in the cards.

The deck is stacked against
the likes of us,
&
THEY cheat better than
we could ever hope to.

Go to sleep.
Wake up.
Go to work.
Come home.
Cook dinner.
Eat dinner.
Clean up.
Watch some TV
or
*******.

Nothing really changes anyway.

After all,
there’s no more Van Halen,
is there?
So,
you might as well…

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020

We are lost.
Gone.
Tomorrow arrived,
we were not ready.

The future showed up,
we showed our ***.

Since we couldn’t
have the anti-gravity
boots,
the city in the
clouds,
or
free healthcare for
everyone,
we settled on the 24-hour
******* tapas bar,
turning it into an
all-you-can-choke-down
affair.

We called it progress.

We don’t need smart-bomb
drone strikes
when we’ve got
over-loved,
under-disciplined,
entitled church-mongers
inside our Wal-Mart,
maskless,
during a *******
global pandemic.

Not to worry though,
Jesus surely has the wheel.

Ah, who am I kidding?!

Jesus isn’t ‘up there’;
he’s down here
making sure
we can still have celery
and
strawberries
to forget about
in our refrigerators.

They’ll go limp,
like our overused
out-of-touch-with-reality
peckers.

Maybe then we’ll
be a little less inclined to
**** everything
up.

Not to worry,
the anti-anti-*******
industry means
more than having a stable
means means.
You know what I mean?
Is that mean to say?

It doesn’t ******* matter
because it’s true.

We march, we riot,
we loot, we get shot,
or
we shoot.

Where in all of this remains our
fundamental humanity?

Is it still on the altar?
Still hanging from the cross?

Doesn’t really matter,
does it?
The dollar is the boss.

At what cost though?

How do we pay what we owe
if we don’t know who the debt belongs to;
who holds the promissory note?

Is it a blood debt?

It sure feels like it
these days.

Who,
in the end,
really gives a ****?

We’re paying on credit anyway
&
horrors abound as the massive
massacre moves ever onward
toward some unknown
finish line.

Not to worry.

We’ll figure out what we need;
what we’re after;
who’s the master,
who’s the slave.

It all comes out in the wash.
The Blood of the Lamb
or Uncle Sam.

Not to worry.

As long as we’re clocked in,
everything will
be just
fine.

*  

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020