I held the smallest fragments
of what had once been my dear friend
in my hand.
Never had I held the cremated remains
of another human being.
I found it to be rather benign, physically.
Mentally though,
I imagined that I found it distasteful,
but not really all that much.
My mind softened the scenario further.
I imagined that I was holding in my palm,
what was once my poet-friend’s thumb.
Now, I had this ethereal thumb
to further, fashionably so,
guide my own pens or pencils across pages
yet to be written,
upon verses as yet unknown.
I took great solace in that thought.

David William Thomas’ thumbprint
is on these pages,
smearing,
ever so gently,
the ink that lays across the face
of this simple piece
of my own soul.

We spiraled what remained of our kindred
across the open spaces
of a modest Missouri wood
as the moon rose above;
the woodpeckers,
the coyotes heedless of our intrusion.

Gates locked against us,
we circumvented their blockade
in the names of sage-smoke and brotherhood,
of mentors and men bent on Buddhist
benevolent remembrance.

We set fire to kindling,
remembered our fallen friend
in a way that he,
above all others,
would have appreciated the most.

In a place called Sunbridge,
a path of passage to a greater plane of being,
poets held sway over all but nature.

Our altars were The Earth,
our robes,
vestments of denim, canvas, and leather
were holy.

Even the invading Conservation Agent
deserved less than the truth,
because he was inherently ignorant
to this event’s significance
in our collective lives at the time.

So,
lies and half-truths were served;
we escaped unscathed.

The lilacs knew,
but remained silent.

Only the tiger spoke.  

*
-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications 2019

In this bluest blue
of the first morning venture
I can hear a helicopter
or a C-130 from the airbase nearby.
Yet, despite my squinting, I cannot see it.

I avert my gaze from the sky,
moving it to my front lawn
just in time to invade the dog’s privacy
as she performs her morning necessaries.

The skyward sounds intensify,
I attempt to find their source once more.
Still unable to locate said airship,
allowing my eyes to follow instructions given by my ears,
I spy a hawk riding the thermals,
perhaps looking for a rabbit to invite over for breakfast.

Able to still hear the warbird or rescue chopper,
my imagination stirs these sounds,
the vision of that sleek, hunting raptor.

How tiny his goggles, his helmet.

How deftly the hawk fires rockets from under his wings
while strafing the rabbit village with his machine guns.
They scatter
as the burrows that nested them warmly, safely in the autumn are destroyed
in flying debris and fireball.

Breakfast is served,
our thunderhawk dives to inspect the results
of his latest scrambling mission.

The dog and I weep softly as Taps plays for fallen lapin infantry.

Our own breakfast is griddling,
we turn our backs to this  morning’s madness.

The omelettes are ready,
the bread,
baked,
pulled from the oven,
the coffee is hot.  

Like rabbits we retreat
to safer quarters.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications 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

when she was sick,
or sometimes when
she got her period,
she would lay in the
bathtub.

she would ask me
to come and talk
with her while
she did this,
and I would.

we would talk about
everything and nothing,

all the while
I would look at her and
marvel.

her skin is the color of milk,
mottled with freckles
like droplets of honey.

and, there were places that were pink,
of course
but I was always fascinated,
at these moments,
with her toes, flushed with blood
from the warmth of the water.

with those toes she can flip the drain,
letting out water,
work the faucet,
adding just a little more hot,
they would crinkle and pop
as she flexed them,

working the drain a final time,
she stands, closes the curtain,
starts the shower.

that’s my cue.

I stand, stretch and yawn,
feeling more sated somehow
now than when we have ***,
I make my way to
the linen closet,
and return faithfully
to my porcelain perch

with a towel.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016

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

“Fear of Fear” was the title of that day’s coursework in “Criminal Thinking” Class. The class addresses thinking errors that these guys tend to make on the regular.  We, every one of us, have made these errors in our own lives too.  The material, written by human beings for human beings, has its flaws and its merits, like anything else.  So, the way that I go about teaching the class is to read through the material as it is, comment on the things that could have been addressed differently, then focus on the merit of the material and ask the guys to expound in either agreement or disagreement on said merits. The discussions can really take off from there. But, we always land the ship focusing on the merits that the guys can agree on and take our ah-ha moments, no matter how small, where we find them.

“I’m not afraid of anything”, he said.
“I just don’t have that in me anymore.”

We go on to talk about some scenarios that he’s dealt with in his not-so-long-ago criminal life.
He tells me that he has been sent on errands by people who were his overseers, out there on the streets. He tells me that on some of these errands, he has called his mother and advised that she should know that he loves her and that if she doesn’t hear from him again…

“Now, to be clear, I don’t like these situations”, he explains..
“I’m not afraid of them.”
“I just don’t like them.”

He goes on…

“Let me give you another example.
If my kid wants to go on a roller coaster, I’ll go.
I’m not afraid to get on the roller coaster, but I don’t like them.
I’m always thinking about the cars flying off of the track and crashing into the ground.”

“I’ll ride my Harley down the highway at over 100mph and not even give it a second thought.
Yet, a roller-coaster…
I don’t like ‘em, but I’ll get on one if my kid wants to go.
I’m not afraid.”

Now it’s my turn...

“Okay”.
“So, you’re contemplating the “what if’s”, right?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“And, when you’re out there on the highway, you’re too busy enjoying yourself to contemplate the ifs, yeah?”

“Right.”

“Riding on roller coasters causes some trepidation though.”

“Yeah.”

“You think about what might happen.”

“Yeah.”

“If you can avoid a roller coaster, you will.”

“Yeah.”

“Going on missions for the higher-ups causes some trepidation?
You call your mom, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Once you’re out of here, are you going on any more of these missions for the bosses?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Because you’re worried about what might happen?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s another word for trepidation?”


These  guys aren’t stupid.
They certainly aren’t cowards.
They just tend to think in ways that have led them down paths that might have been avoidable.
They are human beings that make mistakes and bad decisions, just like any one of us.

These guys are making me smarter.

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020

Sometimes one has to realize
that they have to be
the one to initiate change.
Sometimes one can roar and howl
into the ear of the enemy,
into the inferno, into the abyss
and achieve nothing.
Or, one can whisper in the ear of
someone who doesn't believe
or understand.
A word of kindness,
a word of faith,
and all of a sudden,
one might find that they
are speaking to an ally
where once an enemy
stood.

*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

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

Which way are you going?

I’m going this way.

Robert Frost told me to.

But, it really doesn’t matter
one way or the other
what way,
which way,
when way
you want to go.  

Mr. Frost and I
have miles to go
before we sleep.

These woods are dark and deep,
so we have to be going soon.

We’re following the paths
The Universe has set before us.
We have business
at the end of the line.

But, while we travel,
we’re gonna get a few kicks in.
We’re gonna do whatever
the hell we feel like doing.

Someone once said that the woods,
the snow,
the roads,
the convergence
that Frost laid out
is a metaphor,
an allegory,
some *******.  

I’ve always taken Frost’s words
at face value.
Those two roads
met in the woods,
the choices that we make,
they make all the difference.

They,
we,
create the outcome.
The Universe
simply
unfolds
a map.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020

I wanted you to love me
like a campfire,
like a warm blanket,
like a secret note,
a whisper in the night
that told me how special
I am to you,
how important,
how vital.

I wanted you to love me
like new snow,
like the smell after a
rainstorm,
when the streets are
washed clean,
and we would bask
in the halos of the
streetlamps,
holding hands and
smiling.

You loved me like barbed wire,
like a snare on a rabbit’s foot,
like a house fire,
all the mementos that didn’t burn
coated in a layer of ash,
of soot.

You loved me like a bomb shelter,
like a place safe from your explosions,
but barely so.

You loved me like sandpaper,
removing layers,
grinding,
removing,
until I became

unvarnished.

I wanted you to love me like silver,
like gold.

But, you loved me like tin.

I never knew what it was,
my sin.
I loved you, but you left.

You escaped,
unlike me,

untarnished.

*
- JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications; 2017

It’s impossible to be sure
just what this is.
It feels like decay,
like drought.

Walking tonight
like an angry dog
on a very long leash.

Ready to lunge or
snap at the nearest
passerby.

Willing myself to
expel some of the
bile, the filth,
the wretchedness
into the ether.

Blues like an
anvil between
the shoulders.

It waits in the shadows
for the next opportunity.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPulications; 2016

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

my kindness is wrapped
in sandpaper,
my sorrow is bundled
in rage,
the solace that I find
write now,
are these words
I’ve placed on
the page.

you might not want
these gifts I bear,
but really they’re
all I’ve got.

what I need,
I’ll take from you,
with too few words
of thanks.

I’m sorry that
I move through
life with the grace
of an explosion;
a tank.

but, know that I
am grateful for how
much you’ve given
me,

it means more
than you
will ever see.

so, as you gather
your resolve,
strengthening your
nerve,

know that I do
the same, because
you are more than
I deserve.


blessed be you
who unwraps
razors,

I’ve poisoned them
with love.

I’ve put them in this
envelope,
the corners sealed
with blood.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications

still crippled
and half-crazed
from a day’s worth
of backbiting and
in-fighting amongst
the family,

we’ve separated
ourselves from
ourselves saying:

‘you go left;
we’ll go right
because nothing
else is and that’s
the ******* fact.’

so,
as the sun sets,
the sons and I
make a slight return
to the diner where
I’d eaten breakfast
with friends.

we,
my man-cubs
and I, ate well
and quietly,
with thoughts
of repentance
in mind while we
watched the wild hares
frolic in the clover
outside ourselves
and the window.

having supped
and washed the
the sweat from our
brows,
we returned from the
wilderness of our separate
adventures
to the lanes and fairways
of domesticity.

we,
not He.
are the gods
of our domain.

and,
there has been
enough of breast-beating
and forked-tongue seething
for this particular
earthly rotation.

if only,
it could have
stopped before
I’d absorbed
the sourness of
what was said to
me in the parking
lot of the pre-dawn
diner; before that
first cup of coffee.

we,
us three gods,
my sons and I
return home to
await our goddesses,

forgetting our
Buddhist bacon,
our Hindu eggs,
and our chalices
of Catholic, Apostolic
chocolate milk.

instead, we remember
that I’ve already
disappointed God
once today and I’m
reminded of this by
the heartache of sorrows
bestowed upon my lover,

and,
by the heartburn
of that diner’s finest
bowl of Voodoo chili.


*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

For the past 15 years,
the various versions
of ‘they’ have waited
for the all clear.

We’ve added a couple
more
through trial and error;
pausing to put a pair
in the ground.

And still, that horn
never sounds.

They’ve lived with
a *******
who’s volume ****’s
been broken for a
decade and a half.

Half the time no one’s
real sure what all
the noise is about,
not even the one
making it.

The only certainty,
if anyone’s certain
of anything at all really

is that there’s a fear of
everything that could
possibly go wrong.

This leaves precious
little room for everything
that might go right.

Or, for enjoying it
when it does.

Some days they walk
on eggshells,
other days it’s landmines.

Waiting for the all clear.  


*
- JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications; 2017

The yellow dog was dead,
starting to bloat on the side
of a more rural stretch of 169
hwy.

It was easy to see,
despite the brevity of
our time together,
that the yellow dog had
belonged to, was part of,
a home, a family.

Even in death,
the dog looked like a
Dutch, or a Butch, or Jeb, maybe Roscoe;
like a dog that belonged
in a setting such as
this.

Not,
however, on the side of this
two-lane piece of asphalt,
but in this patch of fly-over
country that he had, just a
while ago,
snuffled.

Or,
living in the horse barn,
sleeping on the loose caroms
of straw, maybe catching a rabbit
for his supper now and then;
his master bringing him into
the house for a warm bath,
some table scraps, when the weather
cooled.

However,
today is warm,
the sun glints off of the white fluff
of a rabbit’s **** and the chase that
ensued was magnificent…

Unfortunately,
it led the yellow dog
to his less than enviable fate,
lying near the sweet summer grasses
with a look of disappointment etched onto
his face.

Upon my return,
passing the same spot,
I see that the yellow dog
is being given a wake.

The vultures,
their congress having voted,
their kettle having stirred,
landed near this fallen hound
and prepared to feast.

Though,
again my investment in the scene
was brief,
I couldn’t help but notice that
the yellow dog still wore a sturdy-looking
collar and that his tags shone brightly
in the late afternoon sun.

So,
I found myself hoping
that as he’d lain at the edge
of his last green horizon,
he looked up at the clouds
and thought:

“This isn’t so awful. I made the best of it.”

Then,
as the wake of vultures
began to feed,
I hoped they too might consume
some fleeting memory that the yellow dog
had about chasing rabbits, thrown sticks,
rolling in mud, or perhaps even this particular
misadventure,
the one that had led to
his wake.
*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2018

Acquainted with Mark,
I walk to the bookshop;
not the one with the *****,
instead the neon green nightmare
where there’s nothing good to read.

It’s not so much that I’m searching
for anything in particular, but the sun
has gone down and there’s a need in me
to get out of the house and walk around
someplace that feels like someplace.

Walking past the skateboards,
(Why the **** are there skateboards here?)
I start looking for Mark.
“He doesn’t live here” they say, “He never has.”
No, he doesn’t, I gather.

The King does though,
and if I wanted to fall in love
with a vampire there, I certainly could.
But, Mark is nowhere to be found.

The Laureate of Drunkards has a room
there, but he hasn’t moved in and the
staff cannot remember the last time they
saw him.

Dr. Lovecraft and Chitulu have been known to set
up a lemonade stand now and again, but they never
stick around very long, their product is too sour
for palettes around these parts.

Regardless of this, my search continues.
Mark is not here today, but Robert Parker
has rented some space and is rooming with
Ray Chandler, down the hall from Larry Block,
sometimes they cook up some pasta and mussels
in white wine, with good bread.

Sometimes they pan fry steaks, and make home fries
drinking rye until it’s all medium rare.

It’s mysterious, how Mark became an afterthought
and we all hope he hasn’t been murdered, kidnapped,
or met with some other form of foul play.
It’s poetic really,
how Mark will come around now and again
he’s not lost or forgotten,
he’ll be waiting for me when I get home.

We’ll sit in the dark, under the lamp,
together well read his poem titled: “Poem”
and I’ll tell him that he’s better at this noir stuff
than all those other hacks.

But, for now, Mark remains…Stranded.
*

-JBClaywell

©2016 P&ZPublications

It’s this recurring waking-dream,
especially on these blustery nights.
I can almost see the sheen of the mahogany
surface of the bar top.
I can almost feel the weight of the tattered
rag that sits on my shoulder.

Barryman’s is a place to come in from the cold.
There’s always a fresh carafe on the burner of the Bunn
machine.

Or, there are stronger drinks.

This is the place where you can talk to anyone about anything.
And, no one is ever wrong, because we all know that we all know
that everyone is full of ****, but we like them and ourselves anyway.

Well, there was that one time that one poor ******* got the boot.
Everyone remembers that one.  

He was hollering about how Winston Churchill could’ve made a better
cup of coffee in spite of his drink of choice being blackberry brandy
and how Kafka was overrated.

So, he was out on his self-righteous ***.

Oh, how he did howl for a while, this ****-drunk sonofabitch;
but then we remembered that we’re all a bit like he was then
from time to time.

And, we retrieved him, his muffler, his hat,
gave him some coffee, a copy of “Catcher”, and a seat
by the fire.
*

-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications

The birthmark rides her set jaw.

It is a deep, bruised, purple
that starts just below her left eye
and runs like a brushstroke,
to the right and comes clear
across the lower mandible,
stopping after her right ear is
swallowed by the color of fresh
plums.

The iPod or smartphone
rides in the pocket of her
pink sweatshirt.

It matters little what songs
reside therein;
those jams are pure armor.

The sun is in her warrior’s eyes,
she squints and the muscles in her jaw
flex.

She’s spotted me,
ambling in her direction.

We share a brief glance.

Immediately, I can see that I’m both a kindred
and an interloper.

(I start. I stop myself. I say nothing.)

She continues with the thousand yards, the long knives,
the silver-bullet eyes.

I’d lay real money that her DNA is angry.

She’s an Incan or an Aztec warrior,

and she wears her unwelcome birthright,
her birthmark,
her war paint,
her war pain
because she has to.

*
- JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications; 2017

How many of these old notebooks
have I thrown away?

How many times have I told myself
that I’m not worth putting down on
paper,

that hell,

I’m hardly worth putting down?

I keep picking them up,

99¢ at any good pharmacy.

$1.25 at an office supply store.

No matter where I get the pulp from,
it’s medicine.

Any time I doubt it,
pitching them
is fever.

Tylenol won’t work,
only ink.

*

- JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications; 2017

I think I know
what’s happening,
after the fact.

The house is more or less closed up.

The TV room,
to the kitchen,
down the hallway,
the bathroom,
the bedroom.

Do it again and again,
world without end,
amen.

He keeps it hot.
His bones hurt
like the unused rooms
with their doors
shut.

The newspapers,
junk-mail on
the kitchen table.

We clear space
for coffee cups,
conversations.

It’s small,
but it’s a horde
nonetheless.

The result of boredom,
the fact that it’s not really
hurting anyone,
nobody complains.

Angela straightens things
up when we come over for a meal
now and then.

(She does the cooking.)

He’s lonely.
He wants to talk to someone.
Who?

No one really talks
his brand of talk
these days.

He’s still working on the book
that he started writing
when I was 16-years-old.

He leaves us alone
on the weekends, mostly.

We do our thing,
he does his.

During the week,
we feed him dinner
most nights.

It’s a good arrangement.
We talk a lot as Angie
cleans up afterward.

It’s alright.
It’s fine.

Cynthia still casts
shadows in the house
that I grew up in.

I wish she was home
with him.

He does too.

We all know it.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020

I’ve been eating popcorn
out of my hat.

It was a freebie that I picked up
at the Gower town fair.

The hat advertises the
centennial anniversary of some local bank
that I’d not heard of until that day.

It was a hot day.
The sun was brutal,
trying to beat us down.

(Pops, the boys, & I.)

We’d walked the perimeter
of the park,
the town square,
in our efforts to see what was what.

We eventually settled on some
kettle corn,
a couple of BBQ
sandwiches apiece.

We’d brought
gas-station fountain drinks
with us;
sneaked ‘em right on in.

My sons found the rides
straightaway.

They spent about $20 of
mine and my own father’s
money.

They masked up,
were cautiously carefree;
stopping for squirts
of sanitizer between
swings, bounces, and bumps.

Pops and I
found a bench
away from everyone else.

I’d gotten him a hat too.

We used them to shield
our heads, our eyes
for the afternoon.

Today,
mine’s an impromptu,
improvised popcorn
bowl.

I’d lined it with a couple
of unfolded brown paper napkins
first;
proud of my ingenuity.

As I poured my first
cap full,
I could almost hear
my wife’s chiding
words.

I chuckled to myself
and

didn’t write them down.

I wrote these instead,
while I munched another
handful of popcorn
from my hat.

*
  
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020

It’s the Tuesday night
of your life.

Soon enough,
Wednesday will be
looking at you,
waiting for you
to cross it’s name
from this week.

Thursday will be
here before you
realize.

Stooped,
shallow of breath,
thin of bone,
milky-eyed.

“I’m so tired”,
said Thursday.

Friday is a second wind,
a telephone call
that announces
ourselves
to
ourselves,
reminding us that it’s all
over so quickly.

Saturday,
a celebration,
merrymaking
as we remember
who
we
are.

Sunday.

Resting.

Maybe a book,
a short nap,
an afternoon
at the cinema,
a steak
dinner.

Monday comes back around.

What if our hours
were days?
What if our days
were decades?

This week is almost over,
isn’t it?

My knees
hurt.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019

We marvel at
the smell of the white clover.

It is a baked in smell right now,
the heat is oppressive, crushing

The smell of the clover, and this
cigarette are the only reason we’re
out here.

Smarter, healthier people are inside,
in the air-conditioning, nursing a beer or
a lemonade, watching whatever might be on
HBO.

Returning to our respective homes,
we rejoin their much more comfortable
ranks.

(I’m curious what’s on HBO anyway.)


When the need for nicotine rises again;
cigarette in hand, opening the door, seeing
the pavement has darkened with rain.

The smell of the clover has been muted,
replaced with the brassy, metallic breeze
that rises like steam from the hot driveway,
lingering under the nose like a warm childhood
sip from the spigot.

That steam has its own odor,
rich and febrile,
rising from the superheated
surfaces of our cars.

It smells like squirt-gun suicide,
a child’s drink from the barrel of
plastic ordinance.

(Do you remember doing that?  
I do.)

How terrifying that must’ve been to parents;
to see their children, in swimwear or skivvies,
******* on the end of a gun.

Perhaps they gave it less of a thought
than I do now.

I’d wager they were inside,
in the air-conditioning, nursing a beer or
a lemonade, watching whatever might be on
HBO.

Out of the early summer heat.

*

-JBClaywell

©P&ZPublications; 2016

Why are these children not in school?
The table of super-white, well-dressed to the point of looking like an ad, would have a hard time getting arrested if they were wielding machetes are at the table adjacent mine.
They look like a cult.
Karen and Becky look over at me. I feel like an amateur still-life painting that didn’t even make it to The Member’s Gallery.
Karen looks like she knows that she’s better than me, than the baristas behind the counter.
She finds us all mildly annoying, but she’s doing her best to maintain an expected level of decorum.  
Little Reed has a necktie on.
He looks like a Reed. Freckles. He’s a ginger, like his dad. Pastor Kyle.
That’s no *******. I’ve overheard that Daddy-O really is a pastor somewhere.
I never figured out where. It’s not really important, is it?
However, I still want to know why Reed and little Becky aren’t in school.
I want to know.
I won’t ask.
But, still…
Reed’s tie is spectacular.
It goes with his shirt beautifully.
The Windsor knot is impeccable.
I bet Reed has no idea how to tie a Windsor knot.
I know I don’t.

These people are beautiful monsters.
And, they are likely perfectly harmless,
Innocuous.

I bet they vote.
Which makes them less so.

They are every cliche.

The ladies glance in my direction now and then.
They’re wondering what I’m doing.
What I’m writing in this book.

The desire to strike up a conversation is huge.
I remain silent,
observant.

I want to ask Becky and Reed if they can diagram this sentence.
I won’t ask though.

I have to get out of here.
I feel like I’m in the presence
of America’s Greatness that few American’s
are actually privy to.

It smells like juniper.
Gin martinis or with tonic,
used to swallow secret extra Xanax tabs.
or
money used to buy hookers.

(paid out of the collection plate.)


*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications

In the cool
early hours
of a Thursday
in September
I find my way
into Big Sky
for a couple
of doughnuts
and a cup.

Just next door
is the Goodwill
employment offices.

There they find
sheltered employment
for adults and youth
with developmental
challenges.

As I park,
hoisting myself
from the driver’s
seat;
I notice her
trying the locked door
to those offices.

Thinking nothing of it,
I continue into the coffee
shop and begin breakfast.

Soon, she is shadowing
the Big Sky entryway,
eyes as big as
hubcaps.

Dressed as modestly
as possible in her
bright green hoodie
and ankle-length denim
skirt, she stares at
us all.

Her eyes are wide with
nervousness and a searching,
a yearning for faces known
and familiar, safety.
Settling for the security
of the donut-shop’s doorway
and the sunbeam therein,
she hovers still.

Her eyes come to rest upon me.

Having been in similar
situations for what is
too-quickly becoming a
half-century, I recognize
what this girl’s thoughts
must’ve turned to.

“There’s someone like me.”
“He’s different, and thusly
the same. He’s safe here.
I will be as well.”

With her owl-eyes she looks
me up and down, focused on
my outward-turned right foot
and the crutches leaning on the
chair opposite mine.

I smile.

So does she.

I wink.

When this happens,
her face flushes to
the color of roses
and her large eyes
sparkle like emeralds.

The doorway continues
to serve as her haven from
the unfamiliar, but she’s
relaxed a little.

Full of pastry,
coffee, and the desire
to finish the task,
I make my way outside.

Rising from my seat,
gathering my crutches,
I step toward the young
lady seeking solace in
the sunbeams.
Leaning in,
I cannot help but notice
that she is quivering
with apprehension.

I say quietly:

“You have really pretty eyes.”

Her unease dissipates immediately.

Her spectacular emerald eyes relax
and she smiles with her whole self
and says:

“I know.”


*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

My wife
and kids
like me better
these days.

The doctor
gave me an
Rx
for an
antidepressant.

I’m not much of a
tough guy,
my anxiety
presents
as anger
and
I tend to
take it all
very personally.

I cried a lot
this year;
missing so many
dead people.

Those little blue
pills make everything
a little more difficult.

But, there are less tears
and more future
in the windshield…
looking toward,
moving forward.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019

I wish that it were
easier to write poems
rife with scientific names
of flora and fauna,

verses that spoke of
romantic cities, their
breathtaking views.

Adventure that I’d be
hopeless to describe with
such mediocre vocabulary,
vernacular, or verbiage.

Alas,

I can only heave ashtrays
full of charred butts,
empty bottles, the contents
drank until drunk.

I write cinder block passages
in these pages, so that they
might outweigh my thoughtless,
yet most sincere,
insides.

I can only tell you
what I know, what I knew
or wish I did,

so that I might clear
the breech of fired
ordinance,
chambering the next
round and scanning
for
a target.


*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

In the middle of another
eight hour shift.

The factory roars
as it always has,
as it always does.

Yet, there are poems
to be written,
cigarettes to be smoked,
and other thoughts,
perhaps thoughts of a
rosebush, planted in a soldier’s
helmet, or maybe daydreams
of
a black-cherry
sundae
to be dreamed.

So, the poet will think,
will smoke,
will dream,
will write.

What will they do?

The factory will roar
as it always has,
as it always does.

The memory
of a whole house
locked inside a single
room floods the mind.

This rooming-house;
a chopped-up duplex.

The poet lived
in the kitchen.

The ashtray overflowed;
the carpet was grey,
dusty with spilled ash,
the evening’s embers
gone cold.

The lock on the apartment
door;
it can barely hold back
a strong breeze.

The poet feels
safe enough.

When the landlady
comes for the rent,
he answers the door
in his underpants.

She is so persistent
in her quest for payment
that she comes by at ungodly
hours.

These are the times of day
that a writer, a poet
might best be
left to sleeping,
but the landlady fails
to realize this truth,
so underpants it is.

The room has been remodeled,
the poet has moved out,
gotten married,
is raising a family,
but he is still a poet.

Smoking a cigarette,
a welcomed pause
in the midst of
an eight hour shift.

The factory roars
as it always has,
as it always does.

The poet’s thoughts
will wander
to witches and how
the weight of these women,
dancing ******* in the middle
of a moonlit forest,
might have their weight
somehow correspond
with that of a duck.

And, then suddenly,
as if awakened from
a trance,
the poet will realize that
none of this ****
really matters anyway;
and that nobody ever
really gives a ****,
except the witches
and the ducks.

The factory roars
as it always has,
as it always does.

The poet remains a poet.

Because.


*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2018

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

sometimes there’s a buzz,
a drone that’s inescapable.
you spend all afternoon walking
around the festival, maybe eating
a turkey leg or some kettle corn,
and you find that you’re surrounded,

swatting absently, hoping for a clear
thought or the ability to offer your
attention elsewhere,
you beg forgiveness of your wife
and children.

other times,
contented to sit in
the middle of the swarm,
chewing the comb,
squishing its warm wax between
teeth, and letting that honey slide
all the way onto the page.

sometimes they sting,
with sharp memory and a
willingness to sacrifice some
of your solace, serenity, or
sanity for the chance to buzz
free.

and when found swollen
with venom or fat and sticky
with honey and wax,
a night’s sleep
and a poem or two
is your reward for sparing
the hive.

the colony buzzes and swarms,
you can feel them, hear them.
they surround, confound,
the words, like bees, abound.

and you must feast again.

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications

I’d like to.
In fact, I’d
have loved to,
but you made it
impossible.

I’d have set
myself on fire
if you’d have
asked me to.

Now, I’d let
it all burn
to ash, leave
the charred
husks behind.

Those are yours.

Not mine.

*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

Every chance we get,
we’ll fail one another.
All of us.

We’ll talk over one person;
ignore all the others.

We complain that no one
ever listens to us.

We rail from our personal
pulpits against the injustices
leveled against the least of us,
doing so behind the comfort
of our keyboards.

Even if we know that we’re
wrong, misaligned, misinformed,
we fight onward anyway.

At this point,
the goal seems
to be that humanity
is choosing to be as
insular, isolationist,
antagonistic as is
possible.

We’ll hate one another
from across the world,
never bothering to cross
the street.

We’ll shoot one another
emails, messages of our
discontent, before we let
the bullets fly.

But, we’ll fire those too.

Each new home sold
will come with it’s own
chain-gun turret.
(Why the hell not?
It’s the American Way,
Isn’t it?)

We’ll climb down from
our turrets each morning,
log onto our computers, tablets, or smartphones;
sending our family, friends, neighbors, and even a few
strangers a fresh round of electronic hate-mail or
a few new anti-social media posts that finally say what
we all think anyway:

“Greetings and salutations!
*******! I’ve always been smarter than you.
I hate you, but I hate myself more and I’ve
never gotten the attention that I think I deserve.
Have a miserable day!
I know I will!”

After that we’ll back our
cars out into the driveway,
We’ll get on all fours;
fellating our exhaust pipes
for about 30 minutes.

After we’re exhausted,
(Get it?! Exhausted!)
We’ll climb back into
the car and pull it back
into the garage.

We’ll punch in the code
to our home security system.

The code will automatically
activate our ambient anti-anxiety
and antidepressant systems

(conveniently included in our home HVAC unit.)

These will fill our homes with enough meds/particles
so that we will be easily sated, manipulated
all day long.

For an extra $200
these systems will also
post positive comments
on all of your social-media
posts so as to maintain
the body’s highest levels
of dopamine.

We want you to end your day
feeling like the center of The
******* Universe.

(Remember when they made posting
vague, attention-seeking updates
On social-media illegal?)

Lights out!
Time to get
the government-sanctioned
2.75 hrs. of  sleep.

Goodnight!
I hate you!
Stay off
of my lawn!

My chain-gun is
set to auto!

Hail Trump!
Hail America!

*
-JBClaywell
©PZPublications 2018

The tree is being cut down
it has no choice in the matter.
If someone is coming at you with an axe,
you can run away.
The tree has to stand there and take it.
The tree is rooted;
bound to that one spot;
there is no escape, none,
never was.

Do you ever wonder if
the tree feels the axe
cut into it?

Does it resonate through
the whole of the tree,
like it resonates through
me?
-
For some reason
I’ve been having to interact
with more homeless or panhandler types
than ever before.

I always wonder why they approach me
in the first place.

I guess it has something to do with
the perception of shared struggle
or something.

I’ll probably never figure it out,
but it could be something like that.
Regardless, it never lasts very long.

The dirtleg sees the guy on crutches as
some sort of kindred:

“Hey man, can you give me a couple of bucks,
so I can get my car going?”

“No sir, I can’t.
I don’t have any cash on me.”

(Actually, I have about $50 in my wallet)

“Okay, brother, thanks anyway.”

“Sorry, sir.”

(I just want to go home.)

{From a block away}

“******* crippled *******!”

(I can still hear him.)

I imagine wiping his blood
off of my crutch before I get
in the car.

The engine turns over.
I drive home.

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016

the page laps ink
like milk from a bowl

sometimes there’s
enough for
my hungry soul.

my mind,
like Richard Parker
with a mutton shank,
gnawing away.

it all moves at
a snail’s pace,
never fast enough.

it is not a pleasant
thing to think
that there is so
much more to be
done.

I know I’ll never
get to it all.

It’s not right,
in fact all wrong,
there is no warmth,
there is no song,

not enough steaks,
not enough ham,
all that is left
is blackberry jam.

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016

I never knew
that I needed
poems,
that they came from
outside
of me,
from some ethereal
plane,
which would come to
take root on the
inside.
So,
yes,
I find that I need poems
like I need leg-bones
in order to stay upright.

I need to bathe in the shadows
of thoughts
and feelings that
are not my own
just as much as I need the air,
knowing that oxygen
has no owner.

Like…
(notebooks,
pens
&
apple beer or whiskey
now and then.)

I need your poems
more than I need
my own,
most of the time.

Your poems are my poems
that I have yet to write,
because my life is your
life is my life is our life
is…

Like leg-bones,
like marrow.
like heartbeats,
like fried-egg sandwiches,
like a *** of fresh
coffee.

Like steak burritos,
with green tomatillo
salsa.

Like me,
like you,
like us.

We are poems,
are poetry,
are essential,
are
alive for
ourselves
&
each other.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2020

The midwest tundra
swallows super-bowl trophies
and
replaces them
with
black-bottomed **** bubbles.

It dares most of us to do better,
while laughing in our faces,
forcing us to watch
as the kid we’re cheering for
cashes checks
for more money
than we’ll likely ever see,
but we cheer anyway,
as the offensive line crumbles,
the ground game is static,
and the receivers have fingers
glazed with margarine.

Like the zebras,
we throw the flag,
assess and accept the penalties,
and
acquit the insurrectionists
regardless of their guilt or innocence.

The previous commander-in-chief
wrote all those *******
a bison-horned,
organic jailhouse chow-hall
type hall pass,
so why the hell shouldn’t we riot
in the ******* streets,
or the halls of the executive branch
of the local,
state,
and
federal, feral governments
of the ungovernable?


Leave well enough alone
and
Elon Musk,
Jeff Bezos,
and
Bill “Microchip Vaccine” Gates
will figure it all out for us anyway.

Whatever happens,
*******’ Mark “Lieutenant Data” Zuckerberg
will keep us
all placated and engaged online
while the drone-strikes commence.


Social media keeps us
unaware of our socio-political/socio-economic saboteurs.

Who cares?
Aren’t there some cat-vids
on
Tic-Tacky
or whatever it’s called?

How much longer
do you think it’ll be
before we can live-stream
a state-sanctioned execution?

Phillip K. **** called
and
left a message for George Orwell.

He said something about
wanting his electric sheep returned
before Big Brother and The Holding Company
found out it’d gone missing.

Neither the electric sheep itself
nor
Janis Joplin were available for comment,
or hadn’t you herd?

Diplomatic Immunity?
Mutiny?
Mutations?
Economic,
ergonomic,
erogenous stimulation package?

Where do I sign up?

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2021