Spot on naked tree—
Fall winds took all leaves but one,
  .  .  .  Dry leaf still dancing.

I'm centralized ******* the eyes behind your face.
Your envy shines through your scars and lies fill your space.
The spot where you once stood is now occupied only by shadow;
Shattered shell, now simply useless, when you used to be fallow.
Speaking haunted words to impress, when they simply aren't your best,
Writing a  metaphorical mess to disguise the blood in your chest.
Rationalizing rage to reiterate your immunity to emotion,
When in truth, your feelings shroud you, like the earth consumed in ocean.
You've exhausted all your time preparing shipmates to drop bombs,
When you should have just put on a red shirt so they would remain calm.
Your day's gone, along with the girl you used to lay on, it's the
Same song, except the ******* sound engineer kept the delay on.
Your gears are running into each other and eroding off slowly,
Until the day your seconds stop ticking and prove that your lowly
Life can only be changed with a changed outlook on your self-worth.
When you let go of someone who never existed, you'll experience rebirth.

Masochism is enveloping you, sadism a byproduct,
Like the desperate excuses you force out of your itching tear ducts.
Gears stuck on 7, the motor's about to blow out.
Don't think now that this person you know is on the holdout.
It's so loud, the screaming amplified by your written words,
And though it hurts, you're coveting that which you don't deserve:
Quit creating your own mirages by expecting to find an oasis.
Until you realize there's only desert, you'll wither away and remain faceless.

Deception is a clever trick, but you're not so great of an actor
(Ironically enough), you have become your own detractor.
Eat fungus to reach the stars, when they're burning lightyears away and
All you're feeling is the warmth of your dopamine receptors at play.
Lying selfishly, forgetting how distinguished you once were,
Not only pushing your love away, but losing objective worth.
Letting a gorgeous figure become a disguise for broken homes.
With shattered moans, you drug-induce tattered bones.
The sadness grows, but only to those who see the truth:
Your admittance is a sign of the desperation leaking through.
A child wrapped in the body of some apathetic youth,
Not yet strong enough to turn away from the peeking moon
Instead of howling loudly, in sheer exhaustion and confusion.
You see, your image of me, like the oasis, is an illusion!
We've switched sides of the coin, you became what you hated.
But, from where did all your anger come? I thought emotions were overrated.

Human weakness is enveloping you, bitterness a byproduct,
Like the desperate excuses you force out of your itching tear ducts.
Fear stuck on max volume, the speaker's about to blow out.
Don't think now that this person you know is on the holdout.
It's so loud, the envy behind your spoken words,
And for what it's worth, you're insulting who once made you bless your birth.
Quit creating your own mirages by expecting to find an oasis.
Until you realize there's only sand left, you'll die thirsty and remain faceless.

If the heavens were to part,
if the earth were to crack,
if everything we knew before
and everything we now know
turned out to be a wonderful
fiction, would you find me?

                                                There is a path. It is not long
                                                it is not dark. It does not wind.
                                                It is simply there. I have looked
                                                for purpose there.
                                                          ­             It is gone now. So much is gone now.

Between stale smoke, making circles
as it leaves our table, and conversation,
which does much the same, we found
ourselves in undiscovered territory.
You had not known that there was a
place inside me that you had not lovingly
explored. You did not know that when
you found it, you would not want to.
And in you, my god in you, I found a
place that was all at once not as inviting
as you had always been.
I need to know more. I need to find this place.
I need to map it out, and leave an imprint there.

                                                They should know who we are, that we were there.

Raindrops are battering the window. A storm
rages outside, the kind that knocks over trees
and lights up the sky a million times. The
kind that reminds us that the war on nature
has not gone unnoticed. My favorite kind.
Your warm body is wrapped in mine.
My arm feels dead. Just below the elbow.
Your pressure is slight, but constant.
I can't decide if that is irony.

                                           I gave you a potato. I told you that it
                                           was more permanent than a flower,
                                           more useful.
                                           I told you that I loved you like I loved the potato,
                                           like I could never love a flower.
                                                                ­                               Forever.

I'm waiting for you now.
Waiting for the heavens to open,
the earth to crack, and the wonderful
fiction that is my life to collapse. I'm hoping too.
Come find me.

Matt and John sat at John’s kitchen table,
it was 5’clock in the morning,
there was plenty of time
but there was none to waste.
John was glad that Linda and his daughter
were still upstairs asleep.
He was glad too that Matt was driving;
no one knew the streets and alleys better.
John thought that Matt was a bag of hammers,
but he was loyal as hell, kept quiet most of the time,
was brave to the point of stupidity, and drove like a bat.
John got up from his chair;
poured another coffee.
Matt nursed a beer.

Everything they needed was in the mini-van;
an innocuous thing lifted rather smartly from
a long-term parking lot near the airport.

Pistols not shotguns, John had insisted.
Matt’s argument was simply that shotguns
were scarier.

John lit a cigarette and sipped some
coffee.

First National would fall.
John was sure of it.
He and Matt would leave
that bank’s lobby with about
3 million dollars strapped to their backs;
they’d lose the bulls, skate by the house,
pick up the girls, and be California-bound
by the time the fast food joints
stopped serving breakfast.

On the other side of town,
the police barracks was alive
with activity.
Two old-school throwbacks
Det. Luke Richardson and his partner,
Det. Mark Gonzalez, had gotten
a tip.

A greasy little stool-pigeon
named Hector had said
the word was that Johnny Dunn
and his raw-wired cousin, Matt,
were planning to take down First National Bank
on Friday, the first of the month,
payroll day.

They’d been leaning
on Hector for a couple
of months,
finally offering
him a knockback
on a B & E pinch
that they’d held
over his head like
an anvil.

Hector squawked
for immunity on that one
as well as
state’s evidence
regarding chatter
he’d heard about
the bank job.

Their gear was set,
vests cinched tight,
shotguns in the car.
Their service pistols cleaned,
oiled, and loaded,
with one in the chamber.
Holdout pieces strapped
to their ankles.

It was about 6:45 am,
First National’s drive-thru
opened at 7:30.
The lobby would open by 9,
but staff would be in the building
by 7;
tellers making sure their cash-drawers
were customer-ready.

The two detectives left
the briefing room,
strode the short distance
to the motor pool,
started the car…
the radio crackled
to life…

static
All units this is Control
static
We have a silent alarm triggered
for a 211 in progress
at 14th and  Carver Avenue
static
First National Bank
static

Mark was behind the wheel,
Luke flipped on the siren,
it blipped then began to wail.

The Gospel was being written.
All units, saints and sinners,
were on the move.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications

Jump on come on
Gonna lay you out
Flirt zoo showdown
What's it all about?

Head game voodoo
Think about do you
Smack talk all uptown
**** strut walk around

Turn it on ignite your flame
You never be the same
You see you're my plan
Get up girl I'm your man

Funky Gotchy don't I girl?
Rhythm method dance floor whirl
You want I like hot lips pouty
*** love exotic dark-eyed beauty

Hypno mind-zone freakout
Hip sway barfly holdout
Walk toe shuffle foot
Love starved crapshoot

Breakdown hard to get
Intrigue mind is set
Crazy hold mind on you
Alcohol stumble on thru

Funky Gotchy don't I girl?
Rhythm method dance floor whirl
You want I like hot lips pouty
*** love exotic dark eyed beauty

Drunk walk dance floor queen
Move stop tease my dream
Close far wet hard rock
Rhyme poet walkin the walk

****** ***** push away
Eye look what you say?
Smile coy make me wait
Night life stay up late

Funky Gotchy don't I girl?
Rhythm method dance floor whirl
You want I like hot lips pouty
*** love exotic dark eyed beauty

You can't possibly still trust paper to guard the body from a million tiny shards of mirror reflecting bright lights over smooth skin just waiting to be seen and sin. Clinging glasses dripping with dark juice conjuring the queen of old French folklore, lost in the modern haze of digital distraction.

On second thought, this paper holds up surprisingly well, now imagine a field setting the perfect winter backdrop suddenly possum tails. You stumbled wants over nothing the rest must be the drinking. Now watch closely this brilliant band of sleepy foxes associating things connected loosely to similar but clearly different things.

You know what, maybe just cease being for a minute or check your text messages whatever comes naturally. Tommy turns then turned away luckily by the end of the week everyone will lose another lossless 7 days.

This is endless whiskered theater, grab a bucket of history and heave it at the last holdout for making better choices... Who but us would have thought mirrors and paper protecting our next best guesses.

See these circus families come up in their SUV's snatching up the last of the real estate, desperate clowns
The market is garbage here in California and I'm in effect a holdout, a refugee seeking asylum

But theyll buy these dinky cabins in the mountain
& During 1 winter season roll a snowball and snowman
then retreat back to the plains. Gutless; those who live here only do so because they have no choice,
why is that so hard to comprehend

Lying in a bed of needles
Just you and me and our bed sheets
Lying in our friendship circle
It's lonely in our circle holdout.
The only way to breathe; is get out
When you're here with me there's no sound.