On October 2nd a local high-school teacher invited me to her classroom to speak to her students about writing and poetry. More specifically, the lesson of the day was one in which the exploration of a subculture took place. Subsequently, the questions that were posed to the students in the beginning were: “What does a poet look like?”  What would a poet sound like, conversationally?” “What kind of clothes would they wear?” “What do you think makes someone want to be a poet?”   As we got set to go forward with what became an easy and enjoyable group conversation, it all seemed a bit esoteric to me and I began to wonder if I was indeed the right person for this particular gig.

I started to wonder if I was a poet, if I am a poet.  What does a poet dress like? How did I come to be a poet? I know my backstory, as it relates to the when and why I write what I write and way that I write it.
But, in the end, we talked about the subculture of poets and poetry, the need for more human interaction, the thrill of the live poetry reading and the fact that this particular subculture that I am a part of also tends to be sought out by those from other subcultures. I explained what The Thunderbird Sessions are and what they continue to mean to me. I explained that we have a regular attendee whom is very obviously wracked with anxiety, but that he comes to life under the lights and through the PA-system at Unplugged during a Thunderbird Sessions event.  Additionally, I explained that we have, often, subcultures within subcultures represented at a Thunderbird Sessions reading.

It seems that the fringes, the weirdos, the people who don’t quite fit in anyplace else, fit into the robes of the poet or the writer, because people that write have an escape hatch, they have a valve that releases the pressures that they feel every day and in almost every way.

I have done my best to make sure that my subculture is as accepting of any other subculture that might step through the doors of anywhere that I might be reading, writing, or otherwise existing. Because, really, the only culture that matters is the culture of kindness.  

Before that roomful of high-school kids was done with me, I told them that despite the fact that I didn’t know them, I loved them unconditionally. I told them this, because no one told it to me outside of my own childhood home and family. I felt like I didn’t fit on the planet. So, I found music and books that made for good companions when I needed them. Records and books are often quite a bit more reliable and dependable than people. People will let you down at every turn.  It’s a pretty rough room out there right now, so I’m trying to be one of those people whom you know will absolutely not let you down. I hope I’m doing okay.

A few days later, I got a thank-you card in the mail. It seems that I failed to communicate thoroughly enough on the subject of subcultures. No one wrote: “Hooray! Now I know a real poet!” “Now I understand how a poet should dress!”  “Now I know how to talk like a poet!”   Instead, the teacher wrote something like this: “Those kids remembered how you told them that you loved them unconditionally despite the fact that they were strangers to you. That really meant a lot to them.”

I want to do more of this sort of thing. It’s the only way I feel like I’m doing the very most good that I am able to do.
*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications

A dream you told me of:
Defusing a time-bomb embedded in the womb of your dead mother.
I don’t know if you were smart enough to flip the failsafe
Or if you indiscriminately yanked wires out, like your dangerous thoughts.

A dream I told you of:
at the midpoint of their parents’ anniversaries, by the ruins of every immortalized
kingdom, she is wearing her mother’s dress and he is too.
“father wanted to castrate or **** me,” he said, conversationally.
they have so much in common. they live the tragedy of armchair **** fantasies,
tend to ****** their own genitals when lost in thoughts of the obstruction of
their desires. (which, really, is pointless
because they don’t desire anything besides fondling their own genitals.)

Blinded Oedipus does not notice
Electra’s concealed ******* dagger. A thousand years between them, yet they’re still children conceived of
Mitigated **** and blood sacrifice for the sake of sailing, and
Defined by deficit from the beginning; her crippled mind sang
to his hollowed eyes. Kinslayers becoming kin,
Entranced by the illusions of the other but really
Loving only the unmistakable reflections of their own sins.

You didn’t ground me, I’m just hitting a “social speed bump”
The room we share together isn’t messy, it just has “restrictive passage”
You weren’t late coming into my life, you just had a “rescheduled arrival time”
When I lean down to kiss you it isn’t because I’m tall, I’m simply “vertically enhanced”
You aren’t shy, you’re just “conversationally selective”
As much as I say you nag me, you don’t.  You’re just “verbally repetitive”
Yeah I need directions because I don’t get lost, I just “investigate alternate directions”
Yeah I’m falling for you, I think to be politically correct it’s “I love you"

I’ve only been at my fellowship gig a week, but It’s official, I’m a candy-striper. Sort of, I wear a blue vest, not the old, red-striped dress, but it’s the same job. I shadow my surgeon (Rebecca) most of the time, like when she does her rounds but otherwise, I study or try to be helpful by delivering specimens to the lab, messengering things from Rebecca to other doctors or assisting the nursing staff with very minor, mundane things.

My training, so far, has consisted more of what-nots than anything else. “You are not a doctor, you don’t comment, don’t advise, don’t touch anything, don’t perform CPR and if a medical emergency occurs, get out of the way - put your back against the wall.” I made up the “back against the wall” part but that’s the soul of it. I’m just an observant pair of eyes and ears or a Yale lampshade.

When Rebecca (my surgeon) does rounds, she usually has five or six interns in tow (medical school graduates who are first-year residents). The interns review patient charts and get quizzed about symptoms, their meanings and possible treatments. It’s very interesting to watch the process up close - these people are wicked-smart (that’s a Boston saying).

Growing up, my parents were both doctors. I found myself standing, listlessly, a million times, waiting in hospital corridors or by nurses' stations for one or both of them to break free so we could leave. I was exposed to 17 years of medical jargon, as they discussed treatments with other doctors or passed on their final instructions for the night. I’d roll my eyes impatiently, but I guess I absorbed more than I realized. I can pretty much follow the consults as they do the rounds.

I met two new people last week, who I think I’ll see a lot of - Jammie and Quinn. They’re both rising-juniors and fellows, from other schools, working with other surgeons. Jammie’s a handsome, gay, black man from Georgetown University (my brother Brice’s Alma mater). He’s loud, fun and smart, very smart.

Quinn, on the other hand, seems like a short, officious little ****. When we were introduced, he cast his eyes over me slowly and deliberately like a frat-boy or an experienced stock ******* and from the way he talks, you’d think he owned the place. He’s from some second rate, local college, called Harvard.

Funny story, Jammie and I had just met and we were looking-up some fellowship information, on his laptop, I was looking over his shoulder and as he flipped around - his computer files and folders were SO organized - there wasn’t a stray file anywhere - not one. As we were huddled closely together I said, conversationally, because where I come from it means nothing and I guess I have no filters, “Are you gay?” He cringed, shocked, and laughingly said “SHHH!” He wasn’t “out” at work. I swore his secret safe and we became fast friends.

Jammie, besides being a molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major (pre-med track), is an observational comedian and as he’s thinking out loud - at a hundred miles an hour - I wish I could record him, so I could play him back later, slowly and deliciously to take it all in. We had lunch together in the cafeteria Friday and when our time was up, I discovered I hadn’t eaten anything. I’d been too busy listening to him open-mouthed or laughing.

I also realized I’m spoiled and not used to working indoors all day. We come in at 8 and we're released at 4:30. It’s almost a shock to see the sky isn’t fluorescent-lit and the breeze isn’t tainted with antiseptic smells. That was fellowship week 1.

Last night I dreampt the most incredible dream
So vivid, but surely fantastic
My daughter unborn was visiting me
So timmid, yet brave and bombastic
We sat for a while, and spoke with our minds
So peaceful and exciting
Her eyes were like mine, and her soul was familiar
So conversationally inviting
Words were not needed to say what we thought
To say what was on our mind
She shared of her waiting, and her longing to be
I spoke of the passage of time
Reluctantly choosing the perfect discussion
We lovingly spoke of the future
For she is my daughter, and I am her father
But only in dreams we can nurture

is poetry really something you think about

like, can this be considered poetry?
me, here

sitting at a computer screen
typing words ever so

conversationally

this reads less like a poem
and more like a speech
or perhaps, like a friend
telling you their day over coffee
and I bet right now you can smell the roasted beans
the air, thick with the smell of caffeine, whipped cream,
possibly a cigar or two

and you hear the voice of your best friend
who's telling you about their day

how they had it rough that day
Ben from accounting really knew how to ruin a day, let me tell you
or perhaps,
someone just spilled coffee all over their notes while they were studying

and as much as fifty apologies can mend a relationship,
fifty apologies can't dry up your english notes

can we really consider this kind of stuff poetry?
it's completely free-form
against the norm,
little to no rhyme or structure
no substance whatsoever

just a mindless person rambling about things that seem ever so slightly relatable

is this really poetry?

probably not.

On Sunday afternoons, I go to the Hy-Vee gas station and write up journal entries and/or just whatever ideas are floating around in my head.

In doing what I do for a living, I hear a lot of stories. Some of those stories are pretty tough. So, writing about the stories themselves or writing about the way those stories made me feel at the time is pretty essential. It keeps me clean, so to speak. Writing about work lets me keep the stories, so that I might learn a lesson here and there, while letting me let the pain, hurt, or other dirt go. Plus, as a bonus, I don’t get too worn out in the doing of the work. The writing staves off any empathy fatigue I might feel.

Also, I tend to wander around town in the evenings. I do it so that I might people watch and so that people can check me out.  That sounds a little odd doesn’t it?  I know. But, here’s why I do it…

My dad used to ask me, when I was a boy: “How many handicapped people do you see?”  “How many people that have an obvious disability do you actually see in St. Joe?”  “None. Except for me, I don’t see any.” I would answer.  And, at the time, at least for me, it was about 99.9% true.

“So”, Pops would say; “Be the one that people see.”

What he meant was that people are often fearful of what they see as different or don’t understand. We all know this to one degree or another, I hope.

So, in doing what Henry Rollins has taught me, at least while working all over Northwest Missouri, I try to put as much mileage on my crutches as I am able. While I’m out there I try to meet as many people and shake as many hands as I can.  I check people out and give them an opportunity to check me out. And, I write about those interactions.

I am a huge fan of the travel writings of both Henry Rollins and Anthony Bourdain. (I’m so sad that Tony left us. Really, it has been like losing a pal.)  However, while I don’t disagree with them that every American should have a passport that is well used, I know that for myself and a lot of Americans travel like those guys do, is a financial fantasy.

But, I can go to City Market in Kansas City, I can go to Cameron, Missouri, I can enjoy and ask questions of the other parents and patients when I take Alex to Children’s Mercy for appointments. I can and I do.   And, no one person has ever been anything less than kind to me. For each other, we are the “one that people see” and I think we’ve done ourselves and our stories as good a service as we can.

Recently, I opened up The Ritual a little. It morphed a bit when my pal Josh would join in. Both he and I would set up like we were going to write our next batch of poems and then we would start talking. We’d bounce around conversationally, just like two pinballs in a machine; there wasn’t a topic that either of us could think of that we couldn’t rail on for the two-hour parameter I’d set.  Neither of us got any writing done. I don’t think either of us cared.

That said, I’ve left The Ritual as it is now. I’ve put it out there on social media that I’m sitting at the Hy-Vee plaza, in Caribou Coffee writing on Sundays.  Sometimes Josh shows up, sometimes he doesn’t.  But, I keep the idea of conversation at the forefront of The Ritual. Sometimes, I think it’s more important than the writing that either does or does not get done.

Why? Because now, in this era of social media, we isolate too much. We feel like we really do have 547 friends or followers when really, we’re alone in our rooms with our smartphones, tablets, or laptops. I imagine if the only socialization I got was online, I’d be horribly lonely.

I’m not putting down Facebook or Twitter users. I am one. But, I want to talk to as many human beings as I can before I kick off.  

So, if you need to talk, want to talk, or like to talk...

It’s a Sunday Ritual soon and it’s all ours for the taking, and talking.

Breath of life!
Breathing you know between it all typically a good thing!
Sometimes one must just do, be.
Do not count your sufferings more than you'd count chicks before their hatching..!
Rhythms as hearts are often drummy, drum like, beat, beat, skip, hop, scotch or fill a pineapple with ***, ***, rummy!
Play the hands you've got.
When between it's more oft a laying down, up put of soul.
So I'm not counting breaths,
Not playing drummish
Looking for something beyond dummish;
Well heck no, hell yes
I have obviously thrived well beyond perhaps what feels oft;
too oft enough a ghosting amount of so many too and another recently's hallowed stalkings
Whereby conversationally be but a dance per chance of the ocean's breezerly
Riding her rhythms
Whereby there's no greater set;
set, ups, of the consolation's..

enunciating, conversationally
the opposite of yelling at a foreigner
only wishing to be heard
while maintaining my distance from the herd
self-assured closet nerd
flipping the bird yelling
word
to all my muthafukkas
the late night ruckus causes my focus to shift
drifting aimless I try to digress
but elementary recess memories
have me needing to confess long held secret rendezvous
the south bleacher blues
and clues to what this all means…
obscenely, I expect you to follow
and wallow a while here with me
only wishing to be heard
while maintaining my distance from the herd
late model Panel, three channels
aftermarket handle, scandal with Randel
and the move that opened the world
girls and shotgun squirrels, two lucky pearls
and the swirly, I’m sorry…
one black eye. the year of fry. crystal **** high
flying over Wah-Chang sludge ponds
drawing power from the universal force and a
pretty smile
only wishing to be herd
while maintaining my distance from the herd
meeting resistance with distance running
cunningly shunning become a man
planning on dying junked up
canned heat, Sterno and Dante’s Inferno
stomach churning when lacking the black
west coast ****** flunking straight life
lost little girl, I’m sorry…
burnt up rhymer scheming miner
trying to unwind, blindly, but kindly
only wishing to be herd
while maintaining my distance from the heard
flash fire, perspiring liar in dire need of a sign
crime pile out of style ******* wilding
free range beguiler husting that 20 dollar
wellness balloon
buffoonery…. T’was June, you see,  when it spoke to me
the year before two thousand and three
granting thee
needle freedom
preachy?
Peach Tea?
just like every other fish in the ******* sea………
………………………
…….
only wishing to be heard
while maintain my distance from the herd

Great pitch,
sales pitch,
your prep,
was great,
you knew
everything
about her,
you gave
it to her
straight,
you knew what
you wanted,
to achieve,
right from
your intro
(se)duction,
you
addressed
her
respectfully,
you got
to the
point,
conversationally,
sensational,
your delovery
was flawless,
you closed the
deal, almost,
but when
you go to
yes, you got
no.  Sorry
the cat will
not let you
eat at the
dinner table
with US.

Lawrence Hall 1d
Fifty Shades of Community College Night Class
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                  Fifty Shades of Community College Night Class

She was always early, sat in the front row
A middle-aged lady trying for nursing school
She had to take English 1301
Everybody did, but they were cool, you know

She was reading a book, Fifty Shades of Grey
I conversationally asked her, “Is it good?”
And conversationally she replied, “It is”
It was very popular by the end of May

The old ladies found the book full of pants-down treats -
I was the only one excited about John Keats

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                  Fifty Shades of Community College Night Class

She was always early, sat in the front row
A middle-aged lady trying for nursing school
She had to take English 1301
Everybody did, but they were cool, you know

She was reading a book, Fifty Shades of Grey
I conversationally asked her, “Is it good?”
And conversationally she replied, “It is”
It was very popular by the end of May

The old ladies found the book full of pants-down treats -
I was the only one excited about John Keats