Paul James Valhalla Clear

Paul James Valhalla Clear May 2013

Just below the surface of the clouds above the jets sits every passenger waiting to live in a fury of turbulence, the time i smile most. I’ve been benched like a burnt out class b wide receiver waiting for some stories from the stars out tonite in rural michigan. The clouds solemnly swear under oath to bury the hatchet convoluted in a he said/cumulonimbus said argument that i’ve been trying to break up since i’d been daydreaming about her on a quilt. A spare tire by the treeline. A spare, tired heart in a beat up way. beating. it beats.

If you ask the willful, they don’t always reply right away when you’re out here. In a subconscious picnic of memories hog-tied in wicker. I’m waiting for nobody that knows I’m here to appear over a hill running like little house on the prairie to apologize for no reason. The world doesn’t owe me anything, but debt is wheat, easily swayed. One minute, I don’t know it very well. Easily swayed to anchors.

Anchors my love, anchors.
And dirt.

Paul James Valhalla Clear May 2013

Nightlight.

I need to whisper sweet somethings to nothing of importance,

Spell out rose petal kisses up the arms of Morticia Adams,

I need to take a romantic walk through a graveyard,

Sit in the dark and think of white,

I could always fall up a hill and roll to the top,

The elevator down eventually hits the basement and that’s what I’m counting on,

Pinky finger through thumb, I’m counting.

Other thumb through pinky finger, I’m counting.

Sometimes you have to eat your Johnny Walker and drink your dinner.

Today, cigarettes… tomorrow, the world.

The convenient thing about tomorrow is it still can occur 2 years after yesterday.

Don’t count on it.

Tomorrow, the world… Friday, a whole wheat bagel and coffee.

I think I might garner a relationship with vampires, built on trust.

Turn off the t.v.

Love is a nightlight.

Love is a nightlight…

Paul James Valhalla Clear May 2013

This Prose Feels Like Pistons.

She bleeds through veins that have been retrofitted for our future,

A running methamphetamine that never tires and always keeps steady pulse,

Excitedly,

Beating,

Torn blue jeans, pant legs rolled up into shorts,

Slaving,

It isn’t about me,

It isn’t about me,

Selfless smile,

It isn’t about me.

A **** hunch, quizzing over an unstained oak desk of etchings,

First place to my second centered in the middle.

A posture for quizzing- a leaning first grader.

None greater.

If she is overcast, there exists none grayer.

But I dig deep and find a kaleidoscope,

At that moment, I look at the light,

It’s true,

It isn’t about me.

— The End —