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King Panda Nov 2017
tenderness leaves
my eyes in capillary ribbons.
your diamond lips are chalked,
released from rock.
your head, a knot of angel pine—
a dark-brown blooming
sticky and lucked to the back
of my throat.
it is in this moment that
I hear a wisp of rapture
blowing through the oak overhead.
my heart’s motor cranked
like October’s last churning
bumble bee.
pollination
susurration
be gone…

you kept looking past me,
your hand on my shoulder.
the precious gauze of your profile
mixed porcelain doll and found a
chisel to perfect your nose.
I feel the love of everything and
you—so unaware of your
beautiful.
King Panda Oct 2017
strong is the still that
reverberates
over old space,
the cold
drought of petal dreams
I chalked
on the garden hose
nozzle,
the mask
just one string
away
away…

the night we touched
was like

                
*    

                   *
  *   *
*
      
*

*
*
(stars)

those daddy-rolled feelings
on my back as
you licked
my spine.
Stephen Gospage Oct 2017
Up there, two lovers stood still, face to face,
While life raced by, at its frenetic pace.
Some days and nights went by; the people talked.
And in the cool of autumn time, some chalked,
Upon inviting spaces on the wall,
These drawings of the lovers and their fall.
JB Claywell May 22
I haven’t been writing a whole lot these days. Even the daily entries have lagged a bit. I have mentioned in other writings, in poems even, that I’ve been given an antidepressant and have been taking it for the last month. It really seems to help. It does sort of flatten me out though.

I used to be angry all the time. I kind of liked it. It was as if the angrier I was the more stuff I could get done and the better I’d feel about my day.  Generally speaking, I wasn’t mad at any one person or even anything, I was just burning fuel like a jet engine and moving from place to place and task to task with a whole lot of: “What the **** else ya got?!” pouring out of me.

Turns out that I’m just anxious and a bit depressed and all of that sort of thing presents in me as anger. Not just run-of-the-mill *******-ness, but almost an incendiary rage.  There were times that my family said that I was a real drag to be around. And, we’ve all been a family for almost 20 years now. My wife and kids are very tolerant and kind people. I am lucky and I know this.

Now that I’m eating one of these little green pills every morning, I feel better. I feel a little blunted and I don’t really seem to care that I’m not writing as much as I want to on most days. However, I have continued these entries in this manner as I have for the past several days as they are important and always have been. Maybe one day I can chuck the pills, but right now I find that it’s easier to deal with this flat feeling than to feel like I’m not able to be happy or to feel like if I am happy then I must be doing something wrong.

To feel like I’m doing something wrong if I’m not raging? What an odd thing to have thought of to write down in this notebook. Maybe I’m being stupid and not dealing with some of my own *******. I don’t know. I thought for a while that I was all keyed up and such because my mom had passed away last year. I don’t think that’s it, because Angela and the kids have often asked me why I’m so mad all the time.

I think that what has happened, is that some bleakness took hold when Ma died and I started worrying that Pops would be next and that it would be a short time in between their deaths; thusly I would be an orphan. 44 years old and fretting about being an orphan?  I guess. Anyway, fretting about this line of thought brought on a truckload of anxiety and here we are with a bottle of little green pills.

I tried to convince myself that I was being weak for taking them. I complained to Angela that I wasn’t writing like I wanted to and that was making things worse. I said something similar to Pops when we were together recently. He reminded me that I had said something about just having to try harder.

I haven’t been going out and walking around at night too much. Watching the people who inhabit those gray spaces that I like to talk about is one of the best ways for me to get to something worth writing about. I’ve not been going to see much live music of late either. I’ll have to get that happening again as I miss it, but I have enjoyed several weekend evenings at home with my little family, my crew. Plus, I’m not as tired over the course of the whole weekend.

Coming home at 4am and being completely awake and unable to sleep more by 7am can be a real drag. But, I always like the conversations that I have. I feel like I get to let people see who I really am for a bit here and there and I get to see who they are too. Some of the people I know that are in bands I go see play these days are the same people I’ve known since high school. I know I’ve mentioned that in here before, but I keep thinking of how we really don’t know each other all that well. I used to feel like I was being fooled or otherwise ****** with when those people proclaimed their fondness for me. I chalk that up to how paranoid and ****** up I was in high school myself. I always have chalked it up to that and now, as I’ve aged, I’ve redefined my parameters of friendship. We don’t have to see one another every day to be good friends. I used to believe the exact opposite.

I like people. I always have. I think that Pops did me a great service by making me feel like I had absolutely no reason to be shy. Ever.  Ma did me one better by making me into someone who won’t take anyone else’s ****. Ever.  To be honest, as you know, I am very shy unless I am comfortable with whomever I am with. And, I don’t talk as much as I pretend to when I’m doing so on the stage at Unplugged. I like to keep to myself, but I like to throw myself out there too. I do it so maybe they will too. It’d be easier if I knew who they were. Hopefully, I’m sending enough good juju out there that they can find some commonality, which we all need.

Yesterday, I found a tract of text in the restroom at the hospital. It was Islamophobic drivel. I kept it in hopes that it would get me fired up to write about how ****** up that sort of fearmongering is. The paper talked about the scientific inaccuracy of the Qur’an and how The Bible was so much more scientifically plausible. What?

I thought about it for a while and figured that I’d just end up starting a debate that I’d lose interest in participating in long before it ended. It’s like that math problem thing that talks about arguing these days.  I’m prepared to let people be gloriously wrong. 1+1=5? Correct!  Bye.

*

-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
Not a poem. Parts of journal entries from this month. I thought I'd type them up to see if it helped. It has so far. Thanks.
Laura Feb 9
"should" be loving someone
"could" be loving myself
"might" have known you were the flame that burned my soul if I'd have listened beyond my rosed eye view
rose gold walls and light blue bedding
can I drown in my sorrows?
one cup of water is not enough
not for this lonely soul
sold my heart on a page and retained my body throughout yellow lines on a marked pavement
chalked the purest morning form of myself that I wish I could erase
"you'll get better"
better off dead
the 1975 inspired
Terry Collett Feb 10
Ingrid became
book monitor in class
and used to get the books
from the cupboard
and hand them round
to each kid in class.

I watched her get them out,
that dedication to duty,
that intenseness of seriousness
I never had,
and she’d place
the books down,
face up,
place them down carefully,
not slam them down
as I would have done,
if being pressed
into service.

And I heard kids murmur
as she walked past,
few would say thank you;
I did, out of some
secret love thing,
and she would pass
and her eyes,
large behind the glasses
she wore,
would glimmer,
then be gone behind
to place books
on other desks.

Miss Ashdown,
would be chalking stuff
on the blackboard
for us to copy down,
and her plumpness
showed all the more
as she moved,
now and then on tiptoe,
like some ballerina elephant
in a tutu.

Ingrid sat down
on the other side
of the classroom,
and I could see her
out of the corner of my eye,
satisfied she had done
her bit,
opening up the book,
and finding the page.

Whilst I looked ahead
at the white chalked
writing on the board,
that ***** in
the Y like a tail,
and Miss Ashdown,
facing us
in her flowered dress
moving like a yacht’s sail.
Boy and girl in London in school in 1958

— The End —