I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of
but I can't be tied to those forever
so people forgive and forget
I try to forget but still feel bad
and I know there are still sore subjects
that I should be sensitive about.

Scrolling through Reddit I see a post
of Māori students at an airport
greeting their returning teacher
with a traditional Māori war dance
which was an admittedly sweet gesture
but something didn't sit right with me.

I wondered why the students greeting their teacher
had to do so through a display of militaristic nationalism
I wondered if that was the last dance the Moriori people saw
before the Māori genocided them for their resources
I wondered if the Māori danced like that
as they *****, murdered, and cannibalized the Moriori.

Wondering all of this made me ask myself:
Why did they have to greet their teacher like that?
The students wanted to make a big gesture
which dancing is perfect for
but dancing can also be vulnerable and embarrassing
because people may mock how you express yourself

but strangers at the airport are less likely to laugh at you
if you're doing a synchronized dance with a group of people
and the dancing is recognizably tied to national identity
because then it's a culturally rich dance
you're a xenophobe for laughing at
and that's what nationalism is:
strength in numbers and a readymade identity
in lieu of an individual personality
oftentimes for the sake of pistanthrophobia.

So as I read the circlejerking comments on the post
I wondered what the difference is between
a Māori war dance and a **** salute
I guess the Māori people have experienced
more oppression than Nazis
but nationalism is nationalism
and those who have oppressed are oppressors
and many who are oppressed would gladly
be oppressors given the chance.

Nationalism isn't healthy for culture
and often isolates people from other cultures
that are all combining due to globalization
which people fight to preserve their little dances and costumes
so we can stay in eternal conflict over delusions of supremacy
when the only nationality should be a global one.

'But that was nothing to what things came out
From the sea-caves of Criccieth yonder.'
'What were they? Mermaids? dragons? ghosts?'
'Nothing at all of any things like that.'
'What were they, then?'
                                    'All sorts of queer things,
Things never seen or heard or written about,
Very strange, un-Welsh, utterly peculiar
Things. Oh, solid enough they seemed to touch,
Had anyone dared it. Marvellous creation,
All various shapes and sizes, and no sizes,
All new, each perfectly unlike his neighbour,
Though all came moving slowly out together.'
'Describe just one of them.'
                                        'I am unable.'
'What were their colours?'
                                        'Mostly nameless colours,
Colours you'd like to see; but one was puce
Or perhaps more like crimson, but not purplish.
Some had no colour.'
                                'Tell me, had they legs?'
'Not a leg or foot among them that I saw.'
'But did these things come out in any order?'
What o'clock was it? What was the day of the week?
Who else was present? How was the weather?'
'I was coming to that. It was half-past three
On Easter Tuesday last. The sun was shining.
The Harlech Silver Band played Marchog Jesu
On thrity-seven shimmering instruments
Collecting for Caernarvon's (Fever) Hospital Fund.
The populations of Pwllheli, Criccieth,
Portmadoc, Borth, Tremadoc, Penrhyndeudraeth,
Were all assembled. Criccieth's mayor addressed them
First in good Welsh and then in fluent English,
Twisting his fingers in his chain of office,
Welcoming the things. They came out on the sand,
Not keeping time to the band, moving seaward
Silently at a snail's pace. But at last
The most odd, indescribable thing of all
Which hardly one man there could see for wonder
Did something recognizably a something.'
'Well, what?'
                    'It made a noise.'
                                              'A frightening noise?'
'No, no.'
              'A musical noise? A noise of scuffling?'
'No, but a very loud, respectable noise ---
Like groaning to oneself on Sunday morning
In Chapel, close before the second psalm.'
'What did the mayor do?'
                                      'I was coming to that.'

It seems to me that even the most artfully
sculpted facsimile of that designed by nature
could never compare to the beauty of the
recognizably finite and fragile.

It would be the most grave of all crimes
to correct the brush strokes of the most
grand artist, that ancient blind
watchmaker whose work is all around us.

Who is the watch to say he isn't designed
as he should be? Those with cogs misplaced
are just as beautiful and unique as those whose
finish shines with the most brilliant luster.

But then, in that instant of plastic smiles and disco rain, I strode away from my first cradle. The air was northern and sliced my lungs open into startling clarity sliced my brain open into startling clarity. And when I looked around, I saw, and when I felt around, I touched. My trunk was slapped into shape, and in a blazing radio tower of language it became un-unique. I fuzzed my skull and rejected the lull and became recognizably human.

And while school strobed by in a prosthetic ferris wheel, I jazzed to a different beat. 'Cause my friends were kids, but neon dashed through my veins; playing saxophone with irrational exuberance. I woke every sunrise with an occupation syncopation: they breathed air while I smelled bass guitar solos in the sultry breeze blowing by the office's oasis. And paper is a flimsy wall for desire, and I never could read a point twelve sized STOP. I spread my arms and heart-orchestrated yearnings in the moon-clouded evening in the mist-drenched night in the raindrop-fresh awakening, but grey can't do but see only grey. And neon doesn't come in that shade.

No food but life no air but life no life but life. That advertisement sky is still looking at me, but I can see with my off-beat eyes that it was never a smile, but a frown of grim satisfaction. I was just looking at it upside-around. But my hair is people-colored, and my breath is derby muted, and no one puts money in my can. And then I looked around and saw, and then I felt around and touched, and then I

Those glass windows melted and gaggled themselves across my tongue, spewing honeyed drops on my flaring trombone soliloquies! My vision spiraled into a black pond of bebop and my lids and lashed fainted: up up and away into the fading light of day.

We’re the heavy eleven.

Think about that number for a couple of seconds.
It’s a pair of ones, side by side.
When people talk about couples,
significant others, they often say something about
two people becoming one.

I’ve always liked the idea of two ones.
Two single and separate entities becoming a
recognizably different thing, yet still able to be
autonomous.

What an enormously human achievement.

And,
the achievement in no way has to be relegated
to romantic partners.

We can all be friends, right?
We can have each other’s backs, yeah?
Support one another?
Thick and thin, and all that kind of thing?
Home team?
Visiting team?
Does it really matter?

I’m one.
Me.
Alone,

You’re one.
Alone.
Independent.
Relevant.
Real.

Like the ones
in the number eleven.
One. one.
Two ones.
Side by Side.
Each holding the other up.
Supportive.
Encouraging.
Together.

The heaviest
of
elevens.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019

Tension drips from my lips
I tighten forcefully.
I tap my finger tips
recognizably.
Hoping you look over
to see my anger seethe
Notice the chip on my shoulder
And ask it nicely to leave.
Your the thing to calm me,
and my raging head disease.

In memory of an unmemorable 4th of August
On a once calm, but malicious day of 2020
Eyes were blinded by unforgivable eruptions
That stormed its rage alongshore Beirut
Banging down the mightiest of towers
Too overwhelming to be recognizably real
Too agonizing to be tolerably sensible
All witness bodies of wandering souls
Of victims heaped beneath breathless rubble
Of dust streams escaping through mindless erections

In memory of an aching 4th of August
From an unknown hour, as an alarming clock strikes six-o-eight
Ears were deafened by voiceless sobs
Of too many people chained in abominable wounds
Echoing thunders through audacious streets
Such a calamity we had to endure
Such a misery we are destined to co-opt
Each would rise again in delirium
In fervor for a melodrama
In search for the shielded guilty

In memory of a treacherous 4th of August
After a long-lost year in mourning distress
Six-o-eight is vividly reborn when
Hand-in-hand all stand upright
Weak but willful for a cause
Tormented yet woven in hope
To walk the walls of beloved Beirut
To carry up high its bleeding flags
To soothe spoken words of a sorrowful mother
“Death is my hope that shall take me to my son”

In memory of a promising 4th of August
The six-o-eight shall ring its bell
And scream “Hail down to the defendants!”


           NHH                                                              ­     "Plume"

is the way they look at you, the way
they treat you. I’ve seen it when I
was throwing up my lungs and severely
dehydrated, near collapse and the nurse

turned her back on me and mistreated
me because she thought I was homeless
because I came to the E.R. without a shower
that morning. But she instantly changed

her tune when she saw my husband in
the waiting room. This has happened over
and again with family and former friends. If
I made millions like some other authors

I’d be given the royal carpet treatment. But
because I’m doing the same as those who
make more I’m given a much lower status
and have failed instead of prevailing in their

eyes Because I don’t yield the tenure
as those who hold a position, recognizably
so. Even the Fine lawyer wouldn’t jot down
writer when asked about my profession. He wrote

security guard in the space, even it had been
years since I’ve done duty in flats and stiff
pants with a utility belt wrapped around my waist,
and on golden badge pinned on my breast pocket.

is the way they look at you, the way
they treat you. I’ve seen it when I
was throwing up my lungs and severely
dehydrated, near collapse and the nurse

turned her back on me and mistreated
me because she thought I was homeless
because I came to the E.R. without a shower
that morning. But she instantly changed

her tune when she saw my husband in
the waiting room. This has happened over
and again with family and former friends. If
I made millions like some other authors

I’d be given the royal carpet treatment. But
because I’m doing the same as those who
make more I’m given a much lower status
and have failed instead of prevailing in their

eyes Because I don’t yield the tenure
as those who hold a position, recognizably
so. Even the Fine lawyer wouldn’t jot down
writer when asked about my profession. He wrote

security guard in the space, even if it had been
years since I’ve done duty in flats and stiff
pants with a utility belt wrapped around my waist,
and on golden badge pinned on my breast pocket.