I imagine Melancholy to be a person,
rather like Jude Law.
He's dapper,
handsome,
well-dressed.

He wears something
straight out of 1945,
a trilby hat,
and suspenders.

Sitting on a short-legged wooden stool,
he appears at the corners
of my consciousness.

He always has a lowball glass in his hand,
casually sipping an amber liquid
and smoking unfiltered cigarettes.
He tells me that I cannot
seem to do anything right.

He tells me I am a fraud.
He tells me that everyone I know
already knows this.

Melancholy comes to call,
sits in the same room with me,
smokes cigarettes,
stubbing the butts out on the floor,
drinks my whiskey,
and laughs at me.

A typical Sunday.

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2015

How new this is,
how odd,
how interesting.

I can feel
the eyes
seeking to understand,
deciding that it doesn't matter,
giving me what passes
for my due
regardless.

I make that half-mile
journey on my handicapped
legs because I want to,
because I need to.

It’s part of what passes for respect
around here.

I walk for myself,
for them who live behind
those gates, those fences,
so as to assist in the possibility
of mending the punitive
as well as the personal;
patching holes.

Yet, their eyes burn.

It’s not polite to stare,
so I’ll stop.

It’s their house,
this 1 House,
this community,
of convicts, inmates,
offenders...
semantics,
synonyms,
systems of...
reform,
rebirth,
rehabilitations sought,
as yet unfound.

We,
they and I,
are seekers,
still.

Thus the march
continues.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020

I have your Christmas present from Jan.
I have the note that she wrote for you as well.
The note is dated: 12/1/2019.
That wasn’t all that long ago.

The gift is interesting too.
It’s a copy of ‘The Best American Poetry of 1997’.
The pages are dog-eared throughout.

Did Jan do that for you?
Did you do that?
I’ll likely never know.

The book is 23 years old.
The gift is 59 days old.

Who loved it longer?
This thought limps & staggers
around the rooms of my mind
as I page through 1997’s ‘best’ poetic offerings.

It’s almost a zen-like meditation
that allows me to touch the name
of the love of this book
and
its
contents as they pertain to a
59 day old gift from Jan
to you
now to Jay…
all of us unknown to one another;

just like
Charles Simic’s poem:
‘The Something’
was to me
only
five minutes
ago.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020

Don’t look too close,
you’ll see something
you don’t like.

Don’t open the door,
you’ll see what lurks
in the basement,
under the stairs.

Leave the hasps unturned.

Let the keys jangle
on your hip.

Don’t turn on the lights.

Run.

*
- JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications; 2017

It was one of those black,
crystalline
winter mornings.

There was no moon
or
stars that could be seen.

The coastal storms
had harried our
Midwestern weather pattern,
dosed us with perhaps,
a little more winter
than we’d previously
been ready for.  

Out the door,
on the street,
just before five o’clock
in the morning.

The air is not still,
but doesn’t have much movement to it.

This breeze has teeth though,
they bite hard enough
that everything in me
says that it might be a good idea to stop,
turn around,
get back under the covers,
hideout for a few more hours.

But, I’m already out here.

I’ve chosen the Phillips 66 sign
as my adopted moon,
letting it guide my steps.

I pass by that mechanic’s yard.

The yellow IROC Z-28 stares at me
with her dim headlights,
reflecting the light of that
‘not-a-moon’ moon
we’d both elected to go in for.  

“I used to go fast”, she says.
“Me too”, I say and keep walking.

There was a time that I wanted that car
like I’d wanted women I had known
during years and versions of myself
long gone.

Really though,
I don’t know what I would have done
with those yellow fishtailing hips,
those screaming tires,
that black vinyl-wrapped steering wheel.

Yeah,
that car was very much like
those long-lost lusted for women,
in that I’d have been flummoxed
as to what to do with them after a while.

There are only so many
red lights to run,
so many hairpin turns to take,
holding that yolk for dear life.

There are only so many mindless rolls in the sack,
only so many beers with bourbon sidecars.

I keep walking.

That yellow Camaro winks at me
a few more times
under the light of that gas-station moon.

I keep walking.

Nowadays we’d both make
that same quarter-mile run
to the Phillips 66
in the same amount of time.

However,
she’s all caged up
in that chain-link lot.

I’m not.

I’m free.

I’m cold,
but where I’ll end up,
I’ll fill up on biscuits and gravy,
sit in a warm booth,
hope that someone
has already left a morning paper behind,
and stare into the inky, starless pre-dawn sky.

Likely becoming
hopelessly infatuated with my
adopted moon.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications

I choke on the decomposition,
the rotten, vegetal smell of her
home.

I’m in there every three months.

She, with her withered legs and
her *******, bewildered smile,
tells me that everything’s groovy.

But, I know better.

It ain’t.

She ****** herself on the regular.

She tells me that her man is all
sorts of lovey-dovey.

He ain’t.

He’s a *******
in sheep’s clothing.

There’s nothing to report though.

If she won’t say it,
neither can I.

I walk out the door,
that the caregiver holds open.

Ol’ Loverboy has his dentures
in his hand, wiping them down.

The desire to put them back in his
mouth for him is huge.

I imagine him choking,
like I am.

Not on that rotten, dead plant stench,
but on a fistful of incisors.

*

- JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications; 2017

Looking through the window,
there she was,
behind the bar,
tending to the locals.

She herself,
my friend,
had become a local.

I wondered
if she begrudged
Hiawatha Kansas
the local-ness
that it had ****** upon
her.

I decided
that it would be better
if I didn’t ask.

Because my own hometown
was still home;
still feeling like someplace
That could be,
maybe do better,
but would rather not.

Choosing instead
to smoke cigarettes,
drink ***** and Red Bull,
while waiting for tomorrow.

Tomorrow would always show up,
looking just a bit more hopeful than yesterday;
remaining less motivated than we’d anticipated
last night.

I drove 39 miles with a belly full of
ate-at-home food,
leaving the house in favor of the blues band
playing downtown.

After their set,
I lost interest,
seeking something beyond the proffered
Friday night loudness and parking-lot
Mexican food.

I decided to see my friend, Abigail.

39 miles of ink-black nothing,
speed-trap smallness,
a couple of Casey’s
with
their lights shut off;
pizza ovens and donut fryers
gone cold for the night.

Red’s Alehouse looks like
It could actually be a house.

(there’s not much to it.)

The Budweiser sign,
neon.
the OPEN sign,
flashing.

Peering,
entering;
she screams in delight.
we laugh.
I sit.
we talk.

She dutifully fills new glasses,
washes those abandoned.

Someone puts a twenty-dollar bill
in her tip jar.

It was a good night,
a fair adventure.

I drove home again in the ink of the Kansas night.

36 HWY,
through the same speed-trap towns,
those convenience stores still
locked tight.
It was fine,
there in the dark.

Neither hungry nor thirsty,
I was sated.

I’d met ****,
Steve,
Jared,
and
George, who’d wanted a sandwich and some potato chips
where there were none to be had.

I laughed with my friend, Abigail.

We’d spoken of dreams long-abandoned
to work and changing circumstances;
finding satisfaction in simplicity and our own
intellects;
sometimes feeling that smartness
is in short supply in our
separate Red-State lives.

I pulled into my driveway
grateful for minutes spent,
memories shared.

I’ll stop in again
saying hello sometime
before the winter sets in
to stay for a while.

Maybe George will be there.

Perhaps I’ll stop by one of those Casey’s
before it’s shut tight or gone cold.

We can tell more stories,
sharing slices of our lives
along with
greasy pizza.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2021

“So, some ******* tells me that I should thank all of the men and women who have served our country and allowed me to have this glorious three-day-weekend. I says to the goon, Yeah? Do you know why we’s are able to enjoy these fine bratwursts on this, a spectacular Monday afternoon? Sure, sure, he tells me. It’s because’a all the service men and women.  What?  So, I asks the guy…What exact holiday are you’s celebratin’? And, he says to me: Why, Labor Day, of course!  So, finally I says to the guy, I says listen here you ******’ goober, I says if you wanna thank dead or living soldiers for your freedom all day long, every day, you’s go right ahead. Hell, I tells ‘em; I’ll even join ya! Lord knows them guys deserve it. But, I says, but…If you wanna thank a poor dead ******* particularly for a tree-day-weekend, known specifically as Labor Day, then you gotta tip ya ******’ hat and say tanks to Jimmy ******’ Hoffa. May he rest in peace, cement and peace, but mostly peace.”

-JBClaywell
©2015 P&ZPublications

Oh, how I wish
you could see
and hear
what was done.

Today we spoke
of what has become
history, the present
all at once;

of how Thunderbirds
have lined their nest
with feathers of fire,
and decorated nest walls
with leather laces,
strung with beads
bummed from a
Summer-school
Social Studies teacher.

It was the best kind of lesson.
(A history lesson.)

Robert Frost and John Coltrane
were present,
but you were missing,
lost this last year.

However,
you still live
inside of your
Never-forgotten instructions:

“Go down to Felix Street and see a man named Hans. He’ll show you what to do.”

(I did as I was told.)

Neither of us
knew it then,
but what I’d heard was:

…”he’ll show you who you are.”

He did.

And, I still know.

Because of a lesson
well taught.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2018

As I pulled into the parking lot,
my nerves came up.
And, I began to wonder if there’d be
enough space left for me.

Circling the lot,
scanning the spaces,
searching for one
close enough;
I parked and looked
at all the cars
their glass eyes looking
back at me.

It was heavy in that lot,
the apprehension I felt.

Somewhere in me was a small
need to be around some good people
for a few moments,
it outweighed my need to be alone
in the night.

Originally, I’d wanted just to see
the fireworks that would follow
the last offering of this city’s
summer concert series,

contented in watching the bluffs
spit fire and sparks for our
entertainment.

The final volley fades and almost
immediately a thousand headlights
ignite.

Soon enough, we few are all alone
again.

Some of these singular souls I’d
wanted to see invite me to further
the evening with food, drink, and
fellowship.

As much as I want to,
as much as I mean to join them,
I cannot.

Something melancholy has its
hooks in me,
in my shoulders.

So, all I want
is to dive into
my pool of solitude
and swim.

*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

the world is coated
with honey,
if you just know
where to lick.

once a year
I drink too
much whiskey;
eat enough
cheese to constipate
King Kong.

and,
when I wake up
the following year,
the ocean flows from
my pecker into porcelain;
I swallow enough
Tylenol and tap water
to fill it up again.

once again,
the world is as right
as the wrongs remaining
will let it be.

The next revolution,
resolution,
revelation,
begins
again,

already
forget­ting
where to find
the sweetest
honey in the
hive.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications

I miss you.

I think about you
every single day.

You’ve always been
one of the most
powerful
human beings
I have ever
known.

To be nurtured
by you
was to be saved
from drowning
preemptively.


To be loved
by you
was equivalent
to having a
corner-man
in a title
fight.

It was not soft,
but it was kind.

It was often angry,
but never intended
to be mean.

Your heart was
always a forge,
a furnace,
the surface of
the sun.

The fire
is still
alive.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2018

They ask me about words
and
I forget that they often
don’t know the same words
that I do.

I forget that sometimes my words
and
their words are mysterious
and
often not as profane
as they might be used to.

Then, I remember
that there are countless words,
concepts,
ideas,
and
beliefs that I am totally,
sometimes shamefully,
unaware of.
(all of these based in vernaculars unfamiliar)

None of us live the same type of life.

None of us
have earned passage
through hardship
any more or less
than anyone else.

Ours are circumstances,
unshared.

Not luck, not fate, not grace,
not inherent anyway.

No different than my last name being Claywell
and
my typing that very same name
into the system of The Department of Corrections;
seeing that name,
the same as mine,
unowned by me,
belonging to faces of men
and
women that I have never
and
likely would not ever meet
in our respective lives.

What does it matter?
It’s a name,
no different
or more or less special than Jones or Smith.

The name is mine and theirs,
as unique to us as we are to one another;
poet
or
prisoner.

Person first, second, and third.

Like a story,
a book,
a treatment plan,
sitting on a shelf or locked inside
a mind until the proper moment
providence or provisional,
authored by the judiciary or just
some guy.
(like me)

We live by words,
are released by words,
are transformed by words,
frightening, fitful, fretful or foreign.

Words give us our humanity,
allow us to encourage or enrage,
engaged so as to establish
a renewal,
reestablished ability to
manifest,
to actualize
the abracadabra
of
our own magic act…

our lives.


*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2021

In the interim,
I will continue
despite the fact
that I don’t know
how to do this
without you.

There are still
moments of
the day that
pass
like
an oil-slick
eclipse
*******
the light out
of the room,
the air
from my
lungs.

It is in
these
moments
that I feel
the
most alive,
because I
really wouldn’t
mind
dying.

Knowing
that there
is so
much more
that needs
done;

the sorrow lifts,
the lungs refill,
the rage
returns,
lights the fire,
and I
advance.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2018

my god!

she makes
me
smile.

and,

i
don’t
even
feel
like

I’m
faking it.


*
- JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications; 2017

...of my need to wander  
this tired Midwestern town,
struggling to be new.

She understands that St. Joseph  
is not the same city as is now present,

That Joseph Robidoux would have to
fish his smart phone from out of his pocket,
dialing 911, and reporting gunshots,
retreat.

Angela acknowledges that I am like this town
in that, my husbandry is radically different than
it was almost two decades before.

She lets me look at my children  
as though they were strangers,
inviting them out for a coffee anyway.
Because, why not?
Everyone needs a cup now and then.

Angela steps aside as I strike up  
conversations with strangers,
like kitchen matches,
making sure that the pilot lights  
of their stories are lit,
like mine.

Knowing that my motives are two-fold,
she and I will sit in the booths of the  
greasiest of spoons;
places that are as alive,  
on a Sunday morning,  
with ideas,
thoughts, facts,  
or falsehoods;
as bacteria in a petri dish,
and no one else can see them  
but me.

We drink coffee,
eating hash-browns,
slurping egg yolks,
not speaking for several minutes  
at a time;
my eyes alert always  
to the other patrons and their possible  
hardships.

(I like a rough room.)

But, when we do talk,
my wife and I,
on this
"Earlier than everyone else is awake"
excursion...

We laugh.

And, I watch her eyes,
bluer than any ocean I've ever seen,
shimmer.

And, I want more than anything,  
to tell a story...


This one.

It’s not the same
as investment banking,
but
you get the idea.


Investing emotion.
A willingness
to make something better happen
to or for
oneself.

Investing in
our own emotions,
so as to garner
more intellect in this regard.

An education in spending wisely.
Energy.
Education.
Experience.

These lines themselves
are an investment,
in thought,
in the feelings
behind the words on this page.
An execution.
An actualization.


We deal in Certificates of Deposit.
Human thinking reconstructed.
Structured.
Settlement.
Earning interest.

Renewed,
by oneself,
in oneself.

Rending willful neglect
to be null and void.
Willing the restored onto the next plane of existence;
the belief that one is powerful enough
to accept viability and value as inherent.
A readiness to do better than before.
Valuable.- Worthy of a life worth living.
Victorious. -- Made new, by one’s own hand.
Using one’s own mind;
actualizing this happening;
becoming worthy of being
powerfully reborn.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2021

This isn’t it.
This is not the end.
It is merely a quickening.
Believing that I’m
all together and all alone.
Falling apart,
empty,
decomposition,
decay.

Half-life.
Barely living.
Counting down to zero.

All I have left
is detonation,
destruction,
decimation...

This isn’t it.
This is not the end.
It is merely a quickening.

This is a hatching,
arising from one’s
Chrysalis,
an awakening through
pain and chaos.

This is a trip through
the ****** grinder
to see what you’re made of.

It helps to remember
that the caterpillar
turns into a mass of virtual
Nothingness
before the wings come out.

(I think I read that somewhere.)

It’s said that the butterfly remembers  
those days painfully;

In spite of the fact they hurt so bad,
the wings are worth it.

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020

People act like they are only allowed to or capable of using one line of thought at a time, or that negates all the other thoughts or something. Not me, baby, not me. It’s not like I can’t want the Syrian refugees to be well tended to while at the same time wishing we would do more for our veterans, returning, homeless, disabled or otherwise. Hell, I wish we’d feed our kids and take care of our elderly and mind our footing and everything else too. But, just because I’ve got some of my focus pointed here or there, doesn’t mean I don’t see everything else as well. Really, in the grand scheme of things, to me, this whole thing with the refugees is about being human and treating other humans, humans that have lost virtually everything, like humans, because they deserve to be treated like humans.
We squawk about red cups and refugees, we grouch about taking Christ out of Christmas. We complain that we don’t do enough for homeless vets, or hungry kids, or whatever. But, the remedy is to do what you can, when you can, and how ever you’re able. Next month, I’m going to a local venue to “Rock For Tots”. I’ll get to see some pals, hear some good music, and help some kids get a better Christmas. That’s how I’m keeping my faith, some faith, any faith this holiday season. And, don’t be so foolish to think that I’m saying that the only faith I have is in the local music scene or some such nonsense, but it is a place to start because it’s full of good people trying to do a good thing and they’ll get it done.
Maybe that’s the point here. Maybe we should see our opportunities to do good stuff in the world like I’m seeing this town’s local music scene right now. It’s pretty simple really, just do a good thing, be a good person, and try to make a difference here and there.
To say that all Muslims are terrorists is stupid, and fearmongering has no place here anymore. It never has. To say that we are “One Nation Under God, Not Allah!” and to ask me to “like and share” that kind of simplemindedness makes me wonder if you understand what America is demographically and how it got that way in the first place.
I’m an American. I’m pretty sure I’m a Christian. (I’m trying real hard to be the shepherd, Ringo.) I know that I’m an Earthling, just like you, and I also know that I’m a Humanist. (If I see a human being out there that I can help; I’m giving it a shot. Hell, it’s what I do for a living.)
‪#‎Hashtags‬ ain’t gonna cut it, friends. We created this country with action. We’re a nation of thinkers, dreamers, and ultimately doers. We get it done, son!
So, do whatever good you can, when you can. If you don’t do that, it’s like not voting…you don’t get to *****.
In the meantime…
I’ll see ya out there.
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; (2015)

I came back to the bookseller’s counter
advising that I wanted to utilize the new
nook.  

As I’d sniffed pages earlier,
we’d spoken of plucking guitar strings and
the benefits of
retreating into one’s office to write for the afternoon.

I used to do that.
No remorse, no regret, always cared what it meant...

after the clientele was seen, observed to be secure
in their homes,
tired eyes, hips, knees and backs noted
as required,
I left houses that didn’t belong to me,
slipped outside of lives that were not mine;
lives that I’d invested in anyway,
as much as it mattered and for what it was worth.

Slipping back into my office,
the blonde wood of the door shutting the hallway noise out
enough so that I could concentrate
on something other than the safety of some old lady,
retreating to the memory of what I’d just done
with the eyes of an outsider.

Write.
Write the sadness of that lonely old girl
out of your guts.

Write.
Write the misery of a 65 year old veteran
who’s fallen into homelessness after serving a country
that appears ungrateful but we both hope isn’t.

Resources, in the vernacular, are a slow go SNAFU,
a ***** that shows up
just as the fall breezes begin to bite
with December teeth.

Write.
(I tell myself again and again.)
So as not to cry
and do it here,
in this quiet,
paid-for space
so that you can feel like a writer,
not like a fraud,
a failure with a heart too big for your chest;
a devil in your brain who drives so fast that everything’s a blur,
a car-wrecked,
attention-span grab,
an emotional ambulance ride to nowhere good.

Write.
So that when the tears fall,
You can publish them,
Taking ownership before they dry.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2021

The car and I,
we made our way
into the downtown
portion of this Midwest
mini-metropolis.

The sun was out,
snow melting,
and it sounded a lot
like rain as everything,
everywhere
dripped and plopped
creating a slurry of
grey road juice
that hissed under
the tires as we
passed by.

At the intersection
nearest to my friend’s
shop,
there was a refrigerator
box that had been
tossed in the street.

It,
like most things,
was on its way
to disintegration.

The red letters
that were inked to
the sides of the box
had started to run,
making the box look
to be some kind
of suburban roadkill.

I wondered briefly,
as the next holiday
rounded the corner
if the contents of the box
might be a gift.

Or…

Maybe a:
“*******! The fridge is shot!”
kind of unexpected
expense.

Either way,
the car and I
had other destinations
to reach.

So, I let my thoughts
wander still
as the tires turned
underneath.

“What would it be like to climb the steel stairs
on the sides of those buildings nearest
the scrapyard?”

Someday,
I’ll find out.

Surrounded by the steam
that comes from those buildings
doing whatever it is that they
might do,

I’ll smoke a cigarette,
count the pigeons that land nearby,
and think of the best way
to tell you all
about it.
*

-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2018

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

A temporary wealth
is all that I am ever allotted.
A brief understanding,
as well as an ability to be understood.

We entertain ourselves
with coarse language,
crude humor,
a commitment to behave
as we know we should,
for a while anyway.

Even now,
our respective grasps
on whatever it is
that we are allowed to share
during this day’s task is tenuous,
at it’s very best.

There are count times,
microcosms of malcontentedness
that lead to slight infractions
here and there.

We,
I learn daily,
are in passing.
Always, in flux.
We are not pals
and
never shall we abide one another
as more than men,
in conflict
and resolution
at the same time.

It is not a death,
their exit,
usually anyhow.
There is no pall that befalls us.

Each of us is birthed
into the life of the other;
in an effort to facilitate
a change in each other,
I believe.  

An impact,
like an iceberg shipwreck,
rescuing and rewarding the passengers,
most of whom would rather drown themselves outright.  

None of us can swim.
We don’t know how.

We barely know what it means
to live as society says we should.
The rules change more often
than we can keep up.

Yet, we grasp
and
cling to basic, vague understandings
in hopes of surviving
despite our best efforts otherwise.  

We work together,
tumultuous,
listening fecklessly,
recklessly hoping for
the best possible outcome.

It is quite the undertaking.  
This,
this performance,
this penance,
the doing of this
is how we invest,
how we spend our temporary windfall.

We learn,
together,
to be human.

Not that we ever actually were not so.
We learn,
however,
to be ourselves,
incandescent inside of our own skins.

Together, but with lives outside of mine,
for the betterment of all of us.
I learn to be a better humanist
than perhaps I would’ve
if I’d never been endowed
with
this temporary wealth.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2021

I step carefully off of the curb,
the white plastic bag is looped
over the handle of my crutch,
inside the bag are a couple of Little Debbie
nutty bars, a bottle of diet Sprite,
and a bottle of Pure Leaf, Southern Style
Sweet Tea.
Angela’s not with me.
I’m taking her a treat.  
She’s working
on campus.
Making my way back to my car,
I spot a maroon 1984 Datsun 510
at one of the pumps.
Immediately, I have to check it out;
we had one of those when I was a boy.
I freeze.
Hanging the nozzle back on the pump,
is my father,
he is wearing khakis, a red and blue striped
polo shirt, and tennis shoes. His hair is less gray
than it was when I saw him just yesterday, and what’s
up with those glasses?  The frames are really thick!
“Hey…Pops?” I say.
He looks up, his eyes wide, green
and full of life, confusion racing across his face.
“Jay?”
“Yeah.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m 40.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m 44.”
“Whoa.” we both say at the exact same time.
“What year is it?” he asks.
“2015.” I reply.
The 44 year old version of my father
and the 40 year old version of myself
stare at one another for another minute.
Finally, the silence breaks.
“You know, I have a wife and three kids.”
He only laughs that deep, hearty, infectious laugh
that has become an inherited trademark.
“And, your mom’s got beans, Spanish rice, and hamburger
patties working at home.
Last I heard, you were pretty excited about supper tonight.”
“I’m sure I am.  I started work on this thing early, no doubt.”
pointing to my gut.
It is painfully obvious that we are both afraid to touch one another.
No hug.
No handshake.
Nothing but a small wave
once he’s back in the car.
But, as he drives down Frederick Ave.,
toward the house,  
I see his window drop.
“I always knew!”
he yells.
“You still do!”
I yell back.
The Datsun warbles and shimmers
like water in the sun
then blips out of existence.
*
©2015 P&ZPublications;
-JBClaywell

dying a thousand small deaths,
profound yet altogether meaningless,
dotting the t’s,
turning blind eyes,
listening to the noises of the nines
while waiting for eleven.

how high does this thing go anyway?

everyone knows that I like it loud
so you better quiet down.

the embers are still aglow.
there’s still a little life left, right?
a little bit of heat? heart?

I’ve only ever wanted to be a five,
maybe a seven;
somewhere north of hell,
maybe a few miles
south of heaven.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020

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

The bars on the graph grow taller.
The bars on the windows grow stronger.
It’s nice when the moon is visible during the day;
it reminds us that it, the moon, is always,
that we are always.
The bars on our phones let us know that
our signal is strong, able to be heard.
Our opinions are that much more valid as a result.
The bars, with the beers, bourbons, and wines
are closed against COVID,
so we sit self-righteous in
our quarantined quarters,
pecking our keyboards hatefully,
against hate…
Punching Nazis with posts to our
social media accounts,
but little else.
No sweat equity?
No sweat.

The delineations that we create are constructs.
Complete and utter *******.
They were either created for us, before we were ever born
or
we created them.

The only difference is light
and
darkness.

This maze is shifting,
the starting point
seems
different for every single
life being lived.
Fair?
What’s that?

All Lives Matter.
Yes.
But, not right now.

In this moment, certain lives matter more.
The focus,
too sharp.
The crosshairs,
too centered.
Aimed all too well.

Another wall of the maze
of inequality, inequity
societal instability,
insanity.
Eugenics?
Genocide?
Systemic stupidity!

Orwellian,
anti-human
attitudes!

Ruled by wads of green paper
or
small slivers of plastic
riding our *****,
slid snugly inside of our
wallets.

The walls of the maze grow taller,
the bars on the graph do the same.

As long as it all comes with
an “I voted’ sticker,
Right?

Inalienable rights?
What are those?
Did we learn about those in school?
Did we?
I forget.

Oh well...

What time do the bars open?
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020

We,
all of us,
stood out in the lot
of the greengrocer's.

We looked upon
the pending sunset as if
we,
ourselves,
were birds ready
to take wing
into that auburn horizon.  

We looked at the clouds
as they became
majestic brushstrokes
placed strategically
by a great unseen artist
whose name we all knew,
but was different for each of us.  

There were brilliant purples,
pinks,
and oranges
that our eyes
might have been seeing
for the first
or last time.

(None of us knew for sure.)  

The sun shone
through a great bank of cirrus
like the beginning of
some great onslaught
by a giant dragon
or
the first flash
of a nuclear holocaust.

None of us
would’ve minded
either scenario
for the beauty of it
and
our presence
therein.  

*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2018

He slides his cheap little Timex
onto his wrist and hops into
the passenger seat.

We could end up just about anywhere,
the local video store, a coffee shop,
the myriad of thrift stores,
or the ******* moon.

He doesn’t care,
as long as I turn him loose.

He just wants to be a big guy,
and wishes he had a squad of
loud cohorts to tag alongside
but, he doesn’t.

So, we hit the street,
my boy and I,
and I warn him…

'Don’t leave the building,
don’t go with anyone;
be back here in 30 minutes.'
He nods vigorously,
anxious to be off.

At the bottom of the 35th minute,
my nerves creep up.
Recalling the time I was almost
kidnapped.
I’ve never forgotten that old man
with his cane covered in etched snakes
and his offering of Reese’s peanut butter cups.

I’m in that hospital hallway, near that drinking fountain,
and my momma steps out of nowhere: “Jay”, she says loudly;
“You get over here by me.”
I move to her side without a word, but with a new awareness.

Fast-forward 30 years, and I’m back.
Standing worried near customer-service;
thinking about how easily swayed  he can be.

I hear a quiet ‘hello’
and can breathe again.
*
-JB Claywell
©P&ZPublications;
2015

“You tell that man that I’ve no more desire to speak with him than I would the devil himself!”
“You tell that man that I am very upset that he would come in here and interrupt this afternoon’s bingo game!”
“I mean, honestly!”

The administrator of
the nursing home looked at me nervously.
I looked back,
apologetic,
but undaunted.

“I just need information.”

“I need to know if she has any plans to go back home.”
“I need to know that if she does go home, she’ll have the proper equipment and support system in place, waiting for her when she arrives.”

The administrator walked back
toward the facility’s dining hall,
where the bingo game was in full swing.

(The executive whispered into an ear.)

A pair of elderly, cataract-laden eyes rolled,
then glared at me with a hostility that I could feel,
even all the way over by the nurse's station.

“The lady says that she plans to stay with us.”

I nodded, said my thanks, and walked back out into the cold.

This part of the job is always a bit surreal.

It makes me think of my mother.

She was the director of several nursing homes over the course of my youth.

The smells of these facilities is assaultive.

(Industrial cleaning products,
boiled vegetables,
assorted liniments and balms,
the faintest twinge of ***** in the nostrils.)

To me these places smell like memories
that go for long periods,
unrecalled,
unrecounted.

(School-age summers
spent in supply rooms,
marking supplies,
stacking them neatly,
like troops ready for deployment.)

Often the nursing home
is thought to be a horrendous destination.

I can understand that.

But, she wanted to stay
and I had interrupted the bingo game,
hadn’t I?

Tonight’s supper was roasted chicken,
mashed potatoes,
pickled beets on the side.

(I’d read as I’d entered.)

Maybe her sons and daughters
didn’t want her anymore.
Maybe they’d visit every afternoon at 4.
There was no way I’d ever know again for sure.  

But, I know why this afternoon’s task
made me smile,
stinging at the same time.

Because I’m Cynthia’s son.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications 2018

Be aware of what you
say you will do.
And then do that thing
with a robustness that
makes sense to you
and would make sense
to anyone that you would
bother to explain it to;
your intentions to do this
thing right and well.

The trick is not to explain
it to anyone at all,
to just do it;
first this thing,
then that one,
then the next one
until you get in the habit
of doing the literal best
you are able in all tasks
that you endeavor upon.

Treat your daily
with a reverence
that you would a child
that you love or an
elder that you’ve respected
in this life  and would
undoubtedly give your
best efforts
on the behalf of.

Soon enough
you will become
a beacon
for those
whom you
interact with.

And it,
this forthrightness,
will become
the
(much needed)
norm for
the whole
of the
human
race.

*
-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

there are monsters
at the end of our
most scenic streets.

still, we must travel
them and see those monsters,
shining our light in their
eyes.

some of us may exsanguinate,
or be gruesomely crushed by
uncaring or misguided jaws.

yet, we must remain steadfast
in showing ourselves to be,
each one, a phoenix,
a thunderbird.

We must rise above such
simple and foolish a
construct as hatred.

We must show those monsters,
at the end of those streets,
in those dark corners,
that we do not fear them,
that we will overpower them,
rising above them,
meter by meter,
stanza by stanza.

We must be the embodiment
of what we do,
we must be poetry.

we must bring our
light into all
those dark places,
we must never, ever
relent.

*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

Waiting for what?
Nothing much is happening here.
Still, there’s nothing wrong
with waiting around for a while.

The air is amazing tonight.
Damp,
cool enough to make
the earthen odors
mean a little bit more
than they might otherwise.

There were two ravens
on the street lights
earlier this afternoon;
we looked at one another for a minute.

They had their sodium lamps
to roost on,
passing judgement on us below,
but there were other errands to run,
no time for further inquiry
as to the harshness of the gaze they leveled.

Still, we looked upon each other,
it was like they knew something unknowable
to anyone else at all.

We ate a tripe supper,
with beans and onions.
The smell of the tripe was a pleasant,
but readily acknowledged
barnyard smell.
As I chewed, I knew doubtlessly
what I was eating.  
It tasted fine.

After supper came a pair of cigarettes,
some time to walk.

There was no real destination.
The only task was to avoid the torpor
that comes all too readily
once the belly is full.

Now,
the house is asleep.

All but me.

I can still smell the lingering smells
of fried ***** meat and onion.
Now harsh,
a bit unpleasant.

I’ll make enough use
of such a small displeasure,
so as to stay awake just long enough to finish these lines,
take another short stroll
into autumn’s savory fragrances
before sleep steals what’s left
of tonight’s living wage.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2018

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

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

They’re playing “Life”
in the living room
while I write this.

Alexander and I
believe board games
live entirely too well
up to their names,
refusing, for now,
to play along.

We,
Alex and I
seek a more solitary
style of entertainment.

Books and music
hold sway here.

As we shelter
ourselves from infection,
leading to introspection,
relegation to the confines
of our respective
residences.

The Mean 19
is out there,
walking,
stalking,
mocking,
locking us down.

When we ask,
weeks down the road,
what COVID did,
it’ll be more about
what we’ve done.

How we cared,
what we shared,
art we created,
while we waited.

So,
let’s play.

There’s more
to this,
to everything.

It’s more than just…
a bored game.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020

we are servants
yet expectant,
not yet ready
to give,
perpetually ready
to take.

this seems to be
the way of things
now.

what a shame.

the Buddha
and the bridesmaid;
we are both
at
the
same
time.

seeking peace,
conflicted,
never
satisfied.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019

The air was painted.

Inside the chain link fences
were clouds;
brushstrokes
that could’ve been
proffered by
Van Gogh
or
*******
as they dissipated
into the early, cold
morning air,
pausing only for a
few moments to allow
some of the particulates
to freeze;
the hydrogen, the oxygen,
the lye,
&
detergents that
make up whatever
is used in
a prison laundry.

The effluvium is rich,
the odor of a passable
cleanliness in what is largely
a rather fetid domain.

The scent of bleach,
harsh, chlorinated,
removal of that which
stains.

Yet,
something stays,
an acrid, sour smell;
an unpleasantness
which seems to have chosen
to remain
unwashed.

It is concluded,
that this emanation,
is the opposite of
emancipation,
it is a olfactive reminder
that
Building # 7
serves up
freshly washed sorrows,
rages, or regrets
as well as
whiter whites,
releasing
stains from grays
more often than the wearers
of
these wardrobes are released
themselves.


With this in mind,
swirling, shifting,
moving, motivating
marching upward,
toward
Building # 1,

It is breathed in,
and out, and in
again,

renewal,
like clean laundry
washed in industrial
soaps, rinsed in disinfectants,
delousers, deodorants
unknowable.

Starting over.
Today.
Tomorrow.
Overmorrow,
And,
Everafter.

Amen.

*
-J­BClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2021

It is her china shop.
And, I'm the bull she allows to enter.
In such a small space,
it is easy to see that she wishes I'd leave,
but simple loneliness
inspires her to offer coffee.
I guiltily refuse,
trying to make myself smaller.
We meander through my list of questions,
force some small talk in between.
In the end, as I exit;
sorrow and relief,
mix equally
on her small,
lovely face.

-JBClaywell

©P&ZPublications; 2015

Looking back at photos of Christmases past.
An action shot of my youngest boy,
testing out his new hula hoop.

I can see my mother’s feet.
She’s sitting in her chair,
watching what must’ve felt
like the magic of the day
unfolding before her very eyes.

And, it was magic.
For a while her pain had subsided,
her knees didn’t hurt,
and she simply enjoyed her small,
nucleus, family as we unwrapped
the wonders laid out before us.

Her shoes,
the ones she deemed the most comfortable,
were yellow and black little tennies.

I called them her bumblebee shoes.
And, there they are in the bottom left corner of these last three photos.

Now, she’s gone.
Somewhere, around the corner, we say.
To the other side, we say.
But, she’s always near, we say.

And,
as I think of her now,
I imagine her as a drawing,
a cartoon,
like something that Bill Watterson
might have drawn up.
Bumblebee shoes,
looking a little bit like dinner rolls,

(That’s how Schultz described Watterson’s drawing of Calvin’s feet.)

her capri jeans,
showing her little birdie-like ankles,
and her comfy, orange Kool-aid Man shirt.

(I still have it.)

She’s still a bit wobbly,
unsteady on her feet,
but she’s doing okay.

So am I.
(Angela too.)
So’s Pops.
So are her grandkids.

We miss her.

And,
this Christmas is different,
that’s for sure.

But,
she walks into my thoughts,
coming from the kitchen of my memories,
carrying a cup of coffee
or
a plate of something wonderful for me to taste.

And, she’s always wearing her bumblebee shoes.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2018

I ate lunch at Taco Bell this afternoon.
As I was people watching,
I noticed a guy who looked
just like "Chief" Bromden.
He was working on a burrito
and looking forlorn.
As he took his biggest bite,
the bite that signified
his commitment
to enjoying that burrito,
all the guts fall out of it.

He was visibly upset by this
and embarrassed as well.
It made me think that
such a happening is universal.

Hot, gooey pizza toppings
or burrito guts have fallen
in our collective laps or
bounced off of our shirts
and onto the floors
of a million restaurants
between us.

It ***** and often
it produces that feeling
we get in our stomachs
when we’ve become the center
of unwanted attention;
even if no one is watching.
This guy had the saddest face
I’d ever seen.
It was really depressing.
But, in the end,
I found myself hoping
that he’d smother me
with a pillow if ever he
found me to be the
victim of an unnecessary
lobotomy.

**** you, Nurse Rached.

*
-JBClaywell

©P&ZPublications; 2016

post dim sum,
I had my lights dimmed.
walking back to the car,
slipping on the winter-slicked
tile steps of my favorite Chinese
noodle hut, down I went.

limbs and crutches akimbo,
there was no salvaging my dignity.
I lost the daily challenge after enjoying
some twice-cooked pork.

Cerebral palsy doesn’t **** around
in the wintertime.
and I was reminded all too thoroughly
just who the boss is,
and it sure wasn’t me.

when asked to describe my day-to-day
to the able-bodied,
I always say: “It’s like being born with roller-skates on
but never being able to learn how to skate.”

and I still don’t know.

(my elbow, my knee, and Pam are well aware.)

*
-JBClaywell

© 2016 P&ZPublications

It was an interesting thing
to be in a bookstore
with him.

The altered state came
almost immediately,
it was hard not
to notice the happening
of it.

It was an electricity
that changed,
charged his large
frame,

making him almost
mountainous.

For just a minute,
we were all blokes
who liked
books,

but he became
a book-buyer/bookseller
a few paces past
the threshold.

When he spotted that
one treasure, that particular
hardcover,
perhaps a first-edition,
he proclaimed
it’s value forthwith.

With his eyes wide,
a sidelong grin,
he dived into the pages,
inhaled deeply
through his nose.

Continuing,
he examines
the tome fastidiously,
expertly announces
the novel’s value
at thrice what the
shopkeeper is asking
and advances to the
counter.

Soon after,
we left that shop,
each of us weighed
down with brown paper
parcels.

Stowing those,
we then sought
smoked gouda,
beef sandwiches,
and potatoes fried
in duck fat.

It was time for lunch.

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016

Feeling like
a calculator
with a decimal
key
that sticks.

Always incorrect,
missing
the point,
a fraction
of the
actual,
misplacing the
factual.

The letter-opener
laughs
at me.

Sees
my inaccuracy,
my inadequacy.

The thumbtacks
gather,
whispering into
the corkboard,
memos written,
regarding my
misaligned
mathematics.

The desktop
dings
the arrival
of an
email.

The office-supply
order
has arrived.

The scissors,
held
in an X,
slice through
packing tape.

Right there,
on top
of the steno-pads,
rests
my replacement,

new,

plastic bubble
intact,

decimal key
moves free,
better than
me,
no need
to see
to believe,
calculations conceived,
bourn correct.

The decimals
rounded to
the nearest
hundredth,

I’ll find
rest,

my long division
meeting measure
of
its remainder
at the bottom
of an
office
wastebasket.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2018

Hello.

My name is Harper.

I am a mouse.

My momma hasn’t let me out of our nest very often yet.

It has only been a short time since I stopped taking
her milk.

And, even still, sometimes,
when I am frightened by
a bad dream,
or feeling very small and very alone,

I will again take some of her milk
and she will sing to me,
stroking the fur on my face and neck
while she sings.

I want to tell you about my home and my family.

My momma, my papa, my two sisters, and I
live in a neat and tidy little hole
behind the refrigerator that sits
in a warm little house.

The house belongs to five humans.

So far, the humans do not know
that we live with them.

(My papa says that they would not like it, if they knew.)

But, the humans have a cat.

And, the cat knows about us.

The cat’s name is Chauncey.

I hate him.

He scares me.

Papa doesn’t think so,
but our human family is nice.

There is a momma and a papa.
two loud boys; one older one who is
tall and thin.

The other boy is small,
but very loud.

He reminds me of the squirrels
that live in the trees near the
back of the house.

The small boy never walks,
he runs everywhere he goes.

Sometimes he jumps and jumps
for no reason at all.


The girl is in the middle.

She is usually very quiet.
I like her best.

The girl reads stories from books.
Sometimes she reads aloud,
when she does,
I sneak in to listen.

I like stories.

I don’t know much about the human momma
or
the human papa.

My papa tells me not to get too close to any of
the humans.
My papa tells me to
stay especially away from the adult humans;
to never let them see us.

I do my best to follow the rules,
to do as I am told,
but I like the human girl
very much.

The stories that she reads to herself
are full of adventures.

I do so very much like to hear her read
the adventure stories.

(I wish I could go on an adventure.)

But, I must be very, very careful.

Chauncey, the cat, likes adventure stories
too.

*


-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

Just fifteen minutes ago
Penelope and I had been
******* like a couple of
fire-breathing, rabid dragons.

I say dragons as opposed to
rabbits, jackalopes, or whatever
because we’d only been awake for
the past half hour or so.

It was 11am on Sunday;
neither of us had brushed
our teeth yet.

There was a party at Reilly’s
last night and the bourbon and
gin were flowing fine,
I have to say.

John Reilly’s oldest boy
had gotten out of Wabash
Friday afternoon after serving 7 years
so it was definitely time for some levity.

Penelope wandered the bar and made
over some of the regulars, sitting on laps
or patting bald heads.

Reilly wasn’t giving drinks away,
despite the joyous occasion.
Ol’ Johnny wasn’t about to pass up a buck,
but Penelope made sure she and I drank for
free.

So, we drank.


I found the bedroom to be sour,
smelling of *****-sweat and ****-fumes,
so I pulled my shorts on, making my way
to the kitchen.


I turned on the stove,
found a pan and went to the fridge
for the butter and eggs.
The coffee *** stared at me.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about you.”


After a brief pause to get
my first love percolating,
I grabbed what was left of a loaf
and my finest, read that as only,
cast iron skillet and wished I had a
sirloin or flank to fry in it, but I didn’t.

Instead, I grabbed three coffee cups,
and set to work, using one of the cups
to cut circles out of six slices of white bread;
luckily I had a half dozen eggs left.

Some people call them
hens in the nest
or
eggs in a basket,
but we always called ‘em
frog eyes when I was a kid.

I won’t bore you with the details,
but I had those little golden *******
looking pretty good by the time I heard
Penelope’s bare feet padding from the bedroom
to the can.

I listened carefully.

I heard the tiniest little **** echo into
the bowl of the toilet while she peed;
I found it endearing.

The shower ran,
the coffee dripped,
I grabbed the Tabasco, some maple syrup,
some marmalade.

Options, right?


I made myself a cup of coffee,
added sugar and some powdered
creamer I had.

I rarely bought milk.

Hell, I rarely slept here.

The frog eyes were done.
The shower stopped.
I heard Penelope padding back to
the bedroom and rustling around in my
chest of drawers.

She appeared in the doorway.
her shower-wet hair a deep, mossy
brown that would dry to a mousy color,
her large, deep, wet eyes the color of emeralds.

I could get lost in them.

Penelope was wearing one of my undershirts,
and, from what I could tell, nothing else.

“What’s for breakfast; it smells good.”
“Coffee too?”

“Indeed”, I said.
“Frog eyes”, I said.

Penelope made a face,
but sat across from me anyway.

Picking up a circle of fried white bread,
bursting a yolk; sipping her coffee,
she took a bite and
smiled at me.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016

I watched my very own
Charles Bukowski
eat a tangerine outside of  
the arthouse  
where we were reading.

His name is not really Bukowski,
but he has told tales in the same  
vein as the Laureate of Drunkards
for longer than I have been alive.

I have listened to that same back alley
patois,
and barroom wisdom for long
enough that I feel a certain level  
of comfort in calling the old gizzard  
this municipality's own  
Charles Bukowski.

The grizzled old poet  
is telling wanton tales  
of love and honeydew.

He goes on and on,
recounting the times  
that he's drunk  
strong potato liquor
with Bengal tigers  
in the backseats  
of roaring taxis
on his way to parties  
hosted by zebras and  
gazelles.

We each light a cigarette,
pausing to smoke for a while.

Seeking to continue  
the conversation with  
my salty comrade,  
yet knowing my own  
stories cannot compete,
I surge onward nonetheless.

His interruptions jam my  
traffic before I can even make  
it onto the onramp of his  
particular, peculiar highway.

His mouth is already working,
though his tangerine consumed.

He's chewing his next story into
digestible, deliverable bits.

And, now he's chewing the rind.

His mouth,
his words,
his life,
and my own for all of it,
is full of  
zest.

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2017

I wrote a book in this place.

I have filled notebook pages
hunched over this very table.

Virtually every time I’ve
come here to write,
I start with a ¢.97 chocolate
chip cookie and the ‘Sunday Special’,
an ¢.87 cup of dark.

Today, upon entry,
I stumble upon
Chocolate Shift Change.

I watch as she tosses the
first molasses disc into the
garbage can.

I ask:

“You’re just going to throw them away?”

She says:

“They’re old.”

“As am I.” I think, but don’t say.

Instead:

“I’ll buy them all right now.”

(She looks at me embarrassed just a bit,
but hurries to pull the rest of the expired cookies
out of the warmer.)

“We can’t sell you the old ones.”

“The fresh ones taste better.”

I doubt if I’d have known the difference.

(Expired confections slide from her grasp.)

Purchasing one, fresh,
I speak of lost profits
and typical first-world
wastefulness.

She nods knowingly,
but shitlessly,

(In that she couldn’t have
given a ****.)

I ask for a pack of smokes
as well,
meandering off in search of pulp
and fire.

My mind racing with the temporary
status
of
everything.

*  

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

Those beautiful tendrils of smoke
that halo the heads of the regular
joes; their ***** weighing heavy on
mahogany and brass barstool.

That beautiful, marbled piece of beef
that sizzles in the cast iron pan on
the burner in the back as the jacket
fries boil in oil in a wire basket
beside.

Wanting to be here,

There.

With those fellas.

waiting on that meal.

Willing to give anything
for the opportunity to embark
on such a Bukowski-esque quest

like steak frites
served up steaming
with sidecars of bourbon
maybe a beer or two;
cigarette smoke.

Elevated cholesterol,
maybe a choked-upon
piece of gristle,
lungs full of carcinogens,
maybe a nodule of cancer.

We won’t talk of this ****.

We’ll talk about the ***** of
the lasses that stroll by our barstools,
heedless to us in the least.

We’ll howl and drool like beasts

(once they’re out of earshot.)

Eventually, we’ll all die anyway.

Eat a steak,
some potatoes
fried in duck fat.

Pat a nice ***,
if you can.

Fall in love.

Choke upon the
wealth of your

satisfaction.


*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications