It's a good place,
The place we are.
Even in the cold weather,
I know I have your warmth to hold me over.
Because after all the freezing winds,
Comes the happy days of spring,
And this spring, I'll be happy with you.
So won't you get your converse on,
To come flower picking with me.
We can skip down flower fields,
Picking plenty of rosy red poppies.

Established landmarks removed test the fates—
Burning wind in a vacant sky.
Rearranged cosmic hemispheres of mind—
Oracle of day not seen with naked eye.

The need for warmth a thing of the past—
Frigid waters the basis of new-fangled cell.
Tortured derelicts kept from spiritual vision—
Oracle of night hangs in day’s empty shell.

Dubious means to generate a sun of artificial light—
But a fling cannot replace a love that is shunned.
Yet warm rays of sunlight still flow above the temporal—
Still hanging in defiance of the 60 cycle hum.

Regain your bearings oh heart of true light—
Everything in its place: oracle of day and oracle of night.

Today, early on a
Saturday morning, I'm
trying a little trick I
learned from Bukowski.
I put on some classical
music and I am trying
to write.
Beethoven's 5th in C minor.

I sit in my favorite chair and
watch my black cat lie on the
back of the loveseat and
watch the snowfall.
She looks triumphant,
but it could just be the music.
The philodendrons that hang
around the house and the
bamboo plants seem happier, too.
There's no hope for the palm tree.

Well, the main thing is that I put the
pen to paper, and Beethoven,
my cat and you came along for the
ride.

Maybe the cellos, violins, and
trombones will fertilize my
creativity.
Now, my other two cats have joined
the fun.
They wrestle by the heater and laugh at
all the fat, rich *******.

Don't give me up,
I wanted to fight this pit in my chest,
but your hands, built a different home.
a beautiful garden, with a white picket swing,
and two souls that aren't mine,
I am just a ghost.

Don't give me up,
My love, a tumultuous sea of emotion,
of longing, of want, of pain.
this weight I carry in my chest,
where echoes of your laughter bloom,
but not for me.

Perhaps, in another life, in another time, in a distant future.
where sunlight is dark,
where rivers run backwards,
where clocks stand still,
we will meet again.
what is this pain? how unfair is this love. .  

Look at me, look at the battles I fought,
look the wars and bullets I took in silent rooms,
the pleas, the tears, I swallowed in the night,
you would see my hand, alone waiting for you warmth.

I asked you to choose,
what for? I already knew the answer.
you walked away, you didn't fight. . .
you fought for them, and left me on this battlefield in my chest,
broken, maimed, longing but above all loving,
someone who does not love me,
& that is the most painful thing in the world.
-Goodbye.

the morning
chores,
a chorus,

a litany,
a recital,
of old, worn
words
familiar
well worn
ungloved
fists of firsts

a deep drink
of 11.5 ounces
of a cold spring
water shocking
in~vigor~ates

rebalancing a
sleep induced
deficit

a gloried yawn,
an exhalation
of the overnight
staleness, an
expulsion of
stale residue
residuals,
leftovers
of a prior
life, dismissed,
yet clinging
to your body

in vain
desirous
to be
remained
part of
the landscape
of your
plain

as part of
your
grandfatherly
accumulations

but there’s
only so much
room
in your
container,
and all
your liquidities
must be replaced

that takes space
for the
fresh withholdings

so.
drink deep,
replace the
fluids unique
that operate
your systems

and all the
rest
will flow,
stream easy

In the glow of distant
lights, in the tangled
mess of all that is
unreachable, I listen
to the shooting stars
I am deafened by the
hum of sad melodies,
I see the half moon
swing in the shadow
of a broken heart, I will
go to places where drunk
poets are wrapped in smoke
and absurd isolation,
where women dance with
painted smiles and blue fire
and call it love, I will go to
places where silence fills
the air with beautiful stories,
I will go where madness
is too afraid to follow …
Clay.M