"hubcaps" poems
i don’t want to be a hooligan, i used to get get yelled at at the pokies, I HATED THAT
i used to be pushed to being a shy person a shy old dogie, I HATED THAT
i used to get yelled at in the towns centre tavern I HATED THAT
people used to say i am shy, I HATE BEING SHY
young dudes used to hide bullying me so mum and dad don’t find out I HATED THAT
i hate people treating me like their mob, PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE
you see the guy who nicked my lunch was an iditio, I WILL NEVER GO NEAR HIM
I WILL NEVER TOUCH ANOTHER POKER MACHINE, WASTE OF FUCKEN MONEY
i feel people are trying to take my fun away I HATE THEM
PEOPLE ARE CALLING ME A WOOSEY, I HATE THEM ALSO
peop[le are treating me like a ****** I HATE THEM
i was getting teased at work, ya see i was told i was getting a job at tuggers ACTEW
and without explaining to me, they gave the job to someone else, I HATE THEM, ***** THEM
people want me to behave like a mature adult, I HATE THAT
i am expressing myself, i want a break, PLEASE GIVE ME A BREAK
support workers tease at work and when i tease, ya know just a small tease i get in trouble I HATE THAT
a man was telling me i forgot to clean the hubcaps, when he could do it himself, I HATE THAT
I hear voices that people are truing to get me to do what i used to do, in every stretch of the imagination, I HATE THEM
i hear voices of people trying to get me to be an itchy hooligan, I HATE THAT
every time i hear a car or motorcycle i hype up by blowing my legs up, I HATE THAT
i hear my voices saying, your not a family person brian, or your still a shy person brian yer mate, I HATE THAT
i don’t want to get itchy feelings, I HATE THEM
the reason why i am not treating lyle like a mate, because he was crazy enough to put me in domestic violence, I HATE HIM
he had anger management issues HE’S AN IDIOT
someone called me a great big ugly snout, I HATED HIM
you see i hate being involved in domestic violence, I HATE THAT
I HATE DOMESTIC VIOLENCE
I HATE DOMESTIC VIOLENCE
I DON’T WANT TO BE A YOUNG DUDE WHO LIKES DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, CAUSE I DON’T LIKE DOMESTIC VIOLENCE
so in hindsight, i prefer to be a little young dude as opposed to someone who likes domestic violence
i hate violence in any way, i think i would know
don’t tell me to shut up, cause i won’t, got it, good
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 5:59 AM UTC
In the caste of what the fir trees denoted what should be or what should not be,
I clasped the fig twigs and watched them split as if to say that all must come to an end.
And in the end, who can the charred leaves blame if there should be tire rods and hubcaps strewn
across the forest's floor?
After totaling the costs of what should not be,
the last mast of yesterday's trade boat could skiff along the shore,
with flag flailing like the playground children's hands.
Irrationality piquing: birds dip and dive like a boxer's fists made of shadow
from one powerline to the next.
Training for the changing, biting winds, watching the unconscious cars staring.
And the skiff oozing through the unmentionables littered in the creek : what will
become of him?
Lodged in stale, fossil bones -- floundered between the swingset and the droning, dusty traffic at 3 a.m.
Metamorphic scarabs stolen from the gusts and pants of too much play.
Basketballs stained with carrion, precarious gusto in the wake of money suckling and ripping alongside
the skiff.
Cross here with two pennies.
Goaded by the solitary abandonment of the 1930's, the used condom's mouth gaping open like hungry carp, dusty trails of light from the past lamplight hanging in the air
Birds measured up along the powerlines, moving mindlessly along with the flock
Bird drones, feathery spines
Birds perched along the playground.
Bird play so far as to say
does this not look familiar?
Bobbing, weaving, slathered in cadence and involuntary muscle jerks.
First we were here
Then we were not.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
What is the Rust Belt?
Can we define it?
- on a map, we mean -
Can we circle in black marker,
topographical green and brown, one mound,
from Canada on down to
Kentucky and say
well, there -
America’s sore fingers in old age
floating, separate, in the pond,
white and knobbed and wrapped around something
a lever, the haft of an oar,
the tuning dial to twist to Cavalcade,
the body of the eel which just keeps swimming away.
You said it in a message -
“Rust Belt” -
and a great blank region was filled
by old poets in corduroy
better than their surroundings
and if not better precisely
then at least when they drink
they drink in bars like smokestacks
with hubcaps on the walls, with weak plumbing,
listening to conversations, not having them.
Rust is something I know well:
I feel rust (but I don’t wear corduroy).
Rust like a signal ingredient
all through the cupboards.
Shot through, something you have too much of
and could never want to write about.
Rust in this message, too.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 10:27 AM UTC
She was smoked
salmon so spread
Like his creme of
the crop
Smoking hot circles
0-0 0______No-No
The points... Dots
And shoe size petite___-
The whole website
To love and honor
Whats in her moves
The private Dancer
May I never be dropped
To be overly loved
I am not asking for more
The score more or less
can be
The greatest dancer
O yes, so many pretenders?
More spread like_______
Mr ((Mayonaise__meeting
Handsomely Hellman
Falling into your
embrace Tango-Tie
I- Apple creme pie
to phone U
May I tango 4-U
Sweet lips of mango
Don't shed one tear
Listen to what is said?
How her dance step
to be read
next year to be wed
Like your hot rods
and hubcaps near
your bed choices
To sweep me off my
feet well said
The tango soprano voices
The Hub
Rubbing my
dancer's feet his treat
Wildflower Salsa beat
Emotional dance
The Tango
Graphically
Cool______ design
Contacts to sign
To his excitement
Steps are well
worth
the dividends
Drinking tapas
The fine tip of gratis
Sign sealed and
dance delivered
In an instant
dancing contract
Two bodies dance
as one__________*
Flaming intertwined
Brazilian Silky- hair
Mr. May-0 tango pair
Mr. Hellman
merci beaucoup
His desires came with the loop
The mixture mango scoop
May-0, not the May Day
No clouds passing
in grays
So festive never passive
Well made beaded
Peacock Miss Marrietta
The Birds of the feather
Expression of sensual faces
To impress the right man
Distinctly dressed
Explanation point
May I interject my
point______________
Tropical sandals high-point
Tango dancers have a
the certain way
The lovely maiden
Names day and age
Eyes engage contest page
He to her side fancy
May- 0 in her Prime
(Hello)
Another Day-Oh!
Don't move her dancer
days to sail away
Sea breeze perfect per day
Her fancy dancer
shoes not on
layaway
* * * * *
In the now a dancer
nowadays taking flight
Every day always
the dancer's way
You Amaze so blessed
Like your possessed
* * * *
Titans in a blaze
How it may arise
He was dancing to her
movement ****** salsa
To her toes up to her
Tango lips amazing dips
Jun 1, 2018
Jun 1, 2018 at 8:15 AM UTC
Wireshell trash can sweep-brushed
by Fusion, Alero, Chrysler Something.
They’re filled to the brim like sepia-stained
skyscrapers with swivel chairs and water cooler
pow-wows. Boss’ talking fax machines
and projections for the second fiscal quarter,
flipping a stock EKG reading on its *** We’re
all millionaires. All up like the NYSE at seven o’clock
in our living rooms watching the fireplace
playfully threaten our investments while CNN
sends money through the VCR slot. Cars, no
garbage trucks, cars, cars, scraping hubcaps off
the high sidewalks like beautiful harpsichords.
Neighbors. Suitcases and dresser drawers
packed tight with meat tape, paper towels,
and coffee mugs/fine China make heaped trash bags
seem obsolete. There’s no garbage here.
Downtown’s neon district makes enough
that they could afford a glowsign on every window,
every square inch of every lunch special, gallery opening,
or Salvation Army bell-ringer.
Forget New York,
we're the city that never sleeps.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
In the cool
early hours
of a Thursday
in September
I find my way
into Big Sky
for a couple
of doughnuts
and a cup.
Just next door
is the Goodwill
employment offices.
There they find
sheltered employment
for adults and youth
with developmental
challenges.
As I park,
hoisting myself
from the driver’s
seat;
I notice her
trying the locked door
to those offices.
Thinking nothing of it,
I continue into the coffee
shop and begin breakfast.
Soon, she is shadowing
the Big Sky entryway,
eyes as big as
hubcaps.
Dressed as modestly
as possible in her
bright green hoodie
and ankle-length denim
skirt, she stares at
us all.
Her eyes are wide with
nervousness and a searching,
a yearning for faces known
and familiar, safety.
Settling for the security
of the donut-shop’s doorway
and the sunbeam therein,
she hovers still.
Her eyes come to rest upon me.
Having been in similar
situations for what is
too-quickly becoming a
half-century, I recognize
what this girl’s thoughts
must’ve turned to.
“There’s someone like me.”
“He’s different, and thusly
the same. He’s safe here.
I will be as well.”
With her owl-eyes she looks
me up and down, focused on
my outward-turned right foot
and the crutches leaning on the
chair opposite mine.
I smile.
So does she.
I wink.
When this happens,
her face flushes to
the color of roses
and her large eyes
sparkle like emeralds.
The doorway continues
to serve as her haven from
the unfamiliar, but she’s
relaxed a little.
Full of pastry,
coffee, and the desire
to finish the task,
I make my way outside.
Rising from my seat,
gathering my crutches,
I step toward the young
lady seeking solace in
the sunbeams.
Leaning in,
I cannot help but notice
that she is quivering
with apprehension.
I say quietly:
“You have really pretty eyes.”
Her unease dissipates immediately.
Her spectacular emerald eyes relax
and she smiles with her whole self
and says:
“I know.”
***
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 3:42 PM UTC
I like wool socks.
I like breathing cold air--
the way it numbs in my throat.
I like watching cars drive endlessly,
staring across an avenue at tires and shades of paint, windows and blurred hubcaps. I like catching the brief moments in time when the streets are quiet.
I like empty bottles and barriers and running my finger through a candle flame.
I like trying to capture the brief moments in time
when the house is silent.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 12:02 PM UTC
it's raining outside--
out of no where like it does
here most of the time, sometimes
without a single flash of lightning
just a few raindrops on the frigidaire
and then the whole lot of them echoing
in through the vents and seeping through
the crack it leaves beneath the window, soft
wet drops pulsing in onto the sill,
that's when the thunder come, on page 167,
sounding something like truck wheels in
that thick snow during the dead of winter
punching lines through the driveway
rollin' out onto the street, not too
much like it did last week when
all of 15th St North was flooded
up past all the hubcaps of every
church-goer and The Daily Record
posted pictures in the following day's
Shopper of grandmothers waddling past
the post office looking dismayed as ever--
but they didn't catch them teenagers
swimming in the ditch of a parking lot
at Taco Bell.
And it's a little too hot in here, but i'm not too privy
to open the windows, because the pitter-patter is all
too deceiving, we're still in the mid-slump of summer
when it gets to be 82 degrees by 9am so the best I can
do is sit still and not turn my head too much---
Sunday's on full-force, already cooked my chicken tenderloins for the week and I'm busy watching #103's shadows shift behind the door
ever'time he leaves his apartment for who-knows-what just that
it makes me real nervous when his thin silhouette lingers or his
jacket buttons brush the door-knob an' make me jump.
but it's alright, living alone. Me and God got loads to talk about but he knows that sometimes I'm just quiet and I'm tryin' real hard.
He knows.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
At the red light
A light shines red like acrylic on a canvas
All the cars wait behind the snowflake line
the light gives way to green releasing the long line of cars
At the red light
ants are in a row
colorful with four wheels
the lady in the front car, the driver, a mother
in the mirror her children sleep
quiet mice, sound sheep
At the red light
red beams on forever
a silhouette dashes in the distance
death creeps up on the ominous shadow
death shaped with four wheels, chrome hubcaps, and tinted windows
At the red light
one, two, three shots cracks of lightning which stole the shadow’s breath
red blossoms from its chest
fireworks of red
must’ve hurt they said
red crystals sprinkles in a dark cupcake
At the red light
the world turned green apathetic to recent events
and the cars trucked on like camels through the desert
At the red light
the eldest child in the front car saw glistening in the mirror
her mother’s tear
the cars flew down the highway, away from there, away
At the red light
a girl went on with her mother to live another
and
At that red light
a girl died
blossoming with red birthing death’s red love
she now laid in a bed of crimson petals
At that red light
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
Not exactly that swan
lifting white grace
to the heavens
Nope
but thud and tug and ping
and whipping thud again
taking flight out across the highway
in my rear-view
Scuttled dust
fiberglass flattened
by the truck behind
White-knuckling wheel while
mentally compute
split-second sounds and feels for damage...
I guess?
everything's
okay...?
First it was that blowout
Then one by one
the hubcaps lost their grips, their minds
and went their ways
to join the trash
of butts and chunks of mattress
fast-food wrappers, road-kill
by the guardrail
of another day
Most recent--
Antenna disconnect
Fixed with tape 'cause
Gotta have that music
heat, AC, tires, breaks
Ya know-- important things
like that steady humming engine
Destined to be--
buckboard to the beach or heaven
whichever's first
by the time its twenty
Much nearer than I'd care to say
Ode to Car and Driver
who get there--
in all good hope, together
:)
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 1:37 PM UTC
VII
The water starts easily, helplessly
licking my tires with passionate peace
As the current builds I can feel my hubcaps rusting
peeling away all those years of clacking British
pavement
and dogs taking a leak despite scolding
strangers
and children’s bouncy *****
gliding just short of an auto wreck
the icy ocean digs underneath my doors
it cuts my cushioned seats
like cobra teeth
Tearing away the midnight kisses
rides to dark places
and the beautiful dusk rainfalls
--If I think a while, in this bubbling
reverie
I can feel the sizzling raindrops
pattering
When the water reaches my wheel I
moan my engine
collapsing inside, wishing I could cry
but any oil would float away
and infest the souls I know will soon
surround me.
It isn’t long before I must hold my breath
and my wheels gently feel a folding of the floor
wood splitting shatters the still air that has
entranced me into my imminent
sleep
nothing, nothing
I all rust
looping bubbles and
twirling like a gumball down the
candy store machine
fallingfallingfallingapart
I explode on an ocean floor
with no hope of returning
even the memories they gave me won’t set me
free
so I only
watch the dust
settle
settle
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 1:47 PM UTC
I, too, dislike it.
However,
I was trying to not think
When out of the gaping wound
Of the car-detailing garage (smells like metallic ***
Came a Nissan GT-R fitted with an oversized spoiler.
Backing out sounded like clearing the throat of God.
A gold snake zizzed around the license plate.
Sunburnt hubcaps, fancy undercarriage installation
Casting a pool of violent light on the pocket pavement
Of gum blots. Was this that filled me with desire?
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 10:31 PM UTC