The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons.

They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage ----
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.

I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free ----
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I hve no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.

Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.

The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.

Could vous just take a second, a moment, one solid instant
to visualize the boy in the stall with more felt lacerations than words of admiration.

Could the bold, bright, beautiful ones start singing
because I'm sick of the loud talk that goes through the motions of lingering
in an echoed room as they "try" to save the oceans - tell me, did we
litter on the way there? There's a forgotten world in stories told of heroes, breathing clean air.

Could the world give one more shot (a mountainous event) because history needs valor.
But technology is further than requirements for bravehearts to trigger a gun. Envision
a man four foot high, who stands a flag where poppies lie because he was that lucky man
who watched his fellows die
I'll say, weaponry wields death to We, naught could prove me wrong.

Could the world be a little bit more tight; bring back the mystery of gentlemen.
We're too loose and on the edge of loss, and the cost - oh, the cost
is sentimentality that somehow became disconnected when
baring your soul and stripping bare became two
and when I meet the one, my mind is plagued that we shall only amount to half.

Could the world be about more than the new, the sophisticated
or have too many eye closed to the life before the Dodo's died; now only
one view: to screen the disease from the rescued swingers, sinkers and singers
ahhhhhhhhh! basking in captivity: to compensate, we take back by metabolizing habitats.

Could the world be about to - because me and mine are everywhere,
but mind: the brain's likely to reach revelation. Clap, we will excel. After all,
when the world explodes and we reconnect, I'm sure each will preach and teach and leech
until it's known - We'll thank Gutenberg as needed, but printer is no master
when the minds are intertwined. But P'haps it has been a bad morning because I've known you
and you've bled true - long been fixing those around, so they aren't torches who warn off monsters,
instead they shave down fangs of loathing, there's no - not one! - beast they burn.
And don't I wonder? Ah yes, I do wonder: that now
Could the world be about to turn?

Some of the ***** sink
And some of the **** floats
But when one plunges sinkers
They squish, smear, and combine
And the plunger comes out
Pretty gross

Atheists insist that this existence subsists of nothing but
The density, material we feel and see and measure. What they're
missin' is in between the lines hooks and sinkers they bit
On the end of false authority's string, wrapped around their finger
They linger and cling to the things they've been spoon fed
From the same spoon belief was taken, the same they dread
But all they've pinned down for sure is themselves inside their heads
Waging internal war, thinking their thoughts can conquer
But only divide themselves
Every victory a loss when the attacker is the target
No stopping to look at the pieces, just charging ahead and trying to forget
No theory or equation slowing their self-invasion. No algorithm to save em. No laboratory haven
And when there's nowhere left to run, turbulent wakes don't wait, mental obliteration leaves you wracked and craven
But perhaps in the deepest rubble, after the foundations crumble
A seed may sprout that can see them out, new and humble
Unblinded equally to all sources of deception
Perhaps they can make a new life, a new perception
To err is human...but when we err far enough to break
We can rebuild, be reborn...a whole new future make.

I like milk tea
like I like my men

Oolong—
deeply rooted in
his beliefs, strong,
slightly bitter— rarely
compromising

Milk and sugar—
delicate, able to bend
rules without losing
integrity, sweet yet
lasting, like the
aftertaste I’ve
grown to love

Cold—
ice cold, only to
complement the
warmth I’ve been
saving for a lone soul

Pearls—
sinkers to my tea,
unflavored yet unyielding.
the anchor of any man
willing to stay with me—
this I have yet to see.

Pile clouds push the north ridge
liquid blue lines at dead man’s point
cane garden pool for industrious folk
verdant green tuck from the upper deck

Waterfalls heavy and head winds calm
sea deep clear at the pit cove
pusser *** pints (for the pain ****!)
eateries pop and glow in port

Oleander clips and elephant ears
scuppernong grape from the jester
tannia stock on dipping day
calypso calls from an improvised spot

Hammocks hung at coral beach
funjie band in bamboshay time
ficus, gallows and *** runners
flying fish on the catamaran row

Metallic crab and swordfish
soggy holes for the sage and musk
sinkers, skiffs and rollers
white squalls gust on the north bay

Skeleton art at charlie t's
powder white and breezy
shells and driftwood for the artisan heart
geckos short of the cabana

Butterflies float on violet caps
fingers cross the hummingbird bath
anglers steady under canopy layer
lighthouse sails are bending

I sat down to write about how you made me feel, Funny,   I thought something indescribeable  would be easy to explain

For the longest time I was In a dark place. With weights of lead bound around my heart. The inside of my skull became  walls that I was forced  to scream at  my flesh  was a barrier to letting the happyness out, my fingers   gripping cold steal triggers trembling pleading to let the grey  matter out
To decorate the walls in my own shade of misery.  
But I'm here
Breathing

It's strange,  for a boy who never leave his room. To sit Under his washing line and listen to the birds  sing. I lie on butter cups as I watch clouds dart between wire and cotton, how did I get here?
What God did I pray too?
Who did I pay?

When my world  was over. My pistol In my hand. You happened.
The cloud that had allways sat just out of sight came running. Galloping . To give me water.  To give me life,

A blue eyed blonde haired mirror of myself emerged,
Your smile Is warm. And kind. Like the evening sun I write this in,
Your touch was wholesome. And craved, you took the freyed edges of the tapastry that had become  my life and started to spin a new story. You took the lead weights  from my heart and melted them  into sinkers so we could catch stories with our fingers,  your skin felt like silk that I could never afford.
With each step  you danced on egg shells as you try  collect my broken pieces
And when a part of my was missing you filled it with a part of you. And now I find myself intertwined.
Here in this warm glow I notice something I've never had before.
The voices In my head have  stopped chiming.  The cries are far away.
Your gifts  have  not stopped coming.  I pray your here to stay
In less time then anyone has ever been in my life you have done so much more,   in less time then it took to knock me down you've built me into something more
I'll never forget the way I feel right now, here. Today.
Because each and every time I see you.
I know I'll stay this way

Give it up
these trials, these files, this documentation of failures
These feelings
hit ceilings
which trap them all inside

These hooks
These sinkers
These dark and lonely bleachers

sit through as the world slips through your fingers
and die

These sounds
these bugs
these mind destroying drugs

these sights
these fights
when's enough enough

hold tight
ignite
these fires behind your eyes

This touch
too much
let go and fade away

let go and fade away

and when they ask you all to stay

let go and fade away

and when they throw you in the fray

let go and fade away

and when they say
don't go
don't stray
stay here and we will pray
For you

to pull through
to find another way

smile wide
feel pride
and go and seize the day

It slides
You try
and struggle to hold tight
It fights, it cries
It screams and then it dies
let go
Goodbye
Now watch it fade away

I found out that Taylor Swift wrote off country music today.
At times I wonder, who do we think we are?
Owner of our own hearts?
Sinkers of ships?
Destroyers of dreams?
Children of destiny?

My name's Monica and I don't own my heart.
I borrowed someone else's though and he's quite kind to mine in return.
I don't sink ships unless I have to and I'd never give up country music no matter who I thought I changed into.
I laugh too loud and I spend too much money of coffee, energy drinks, and boba smoothies.
Honestly, I could use a real makeover.
I try my best not to destroy dreams
but I find myself clinging to the thought of fate and destiny as much as the next cheesy romantic.
I cry too loud, too much and too often.
God has a special place in his heart for people like me.
I crave attention but only sometimes and it's usually accompanied by a dull ache in my chest.
I'll get back to you when I come to a conclusion on what that is.
I don't say "no" to a cold one at the end of a long day.
Sometimes -and this one is embarrassing- I yell back at the guests when they yell at me.
(I may be in customer service, but that doesn't make me a verbal punching bag.)
I've got issues and attitude and an inability to stop putting myself down.

Who do we think we are?
Everyday I change my mind.
But not about country.
Taylor, what were you thinking?

Is no longer alive.
People left there home to come to this here promise land.
And We've disappointing them time and time again.
We promise them money and riches for miles.
But all we give them is evil sinkers and fake cheerful smiles.
But here were free
Were not the only ones free
But we have freedom of speech
France has strikes and police don't abuse them when they do
But...we have..Equal rights
Wow the hell we do nothings equal
But..we are beautiful
We are not a beautiful country, we never were.
People have all these good things to say about america but there's nothing good about us.
Yes were getting better.
There's no more slaves.
Women have more rights.
Children can get a good education.
But We have not yet reached where we could be.
It will be years, centuries before the "American Dream"
Becomes actuality.

Star to let
to a cat-lover
and friend of

less perfect dahlias,
to putter-outers of
unwashed milk bottles,

to curtain shifters
and spectacle sinkers,
to all those gods

of Victoria's terraces
all waiting for
the flat upstairs.

The pulsation of my heart as it flies across the keyboard
has broken the realm of reasonable
and the verdict for this insanity
is a rung bell
Let the open-ended battle
rake in my oppression until I'm begging
but my blood pumping-now gushing shall bring about
the enlightenment:
only the strongest survive the lies, and the cries
only add to their excitement

I've situated swell here, wrought wells near of a fear so ghastly
there's more salt than water
and somehow it's hotter than the older stories
of Hell in it's glories
with rivers for sinkers
run red from the clinkers
The fragile burn in my vile.

Then one little girl
up-heaved my determination
with a situation that left me speechless
An ice ripped my fire with the touch of those fingers
and hand in hand I watched her stand
and I couldn't see through
that colour blue
unknown to me
was the land of sea

I stayed there blind, unaware of wickedness
let alone the wrongs of my own
But she, in wiser, stood up to the ignorance
and bravely took an oath

"I am the strongest
You are the weakest
But I will save us both"

Trusted , clear-coated , cured cane pole
Can o' corn 'neath a Maple umbrella
Brown Trout skimmers popping the top of a runaway
river
Red , gold leaf boats sail the eddies
Painted hardbacks , soft shelled sinkers
Lolly-gagging Mudcats , sunlight in her
turbulent mirror
Cold water shivers , warm flannel shirts with
wet rolled up Levi's , Peanut butter -apple jelly
sandwiches with a peach Nehi
Cattle trails homeward
Honeysuckle boundaries , Red plum , Mimosa ,
Honey Locust companions
Brown sugar tended earth , June corn , young hideaways
Purple wire-grass terraces , wild Dove lining
barbed wire fencing with late hour songbirds escorts* ..

We often hang up
phones without saying
what the person
on the other end
wants to hear.

More interested in
coffee and sinkers
on our way out the door;
beating the rush hour
traffic into downtown,
late for work.

Choosing resolve over
conviction, no trump cards
in this particular deck.

Massachusetts Street,
Lawrence Kansas, 7pm.

There’s a man sitting quietly
across from where I am.

He is alternating between purring
like a cat and making **** noises
at passersby and otherwise muttering
to himself.

He is drinking an iced tea from the
café and chain smoking

I am smoking a cigarette myself.

Every moment or so, we make
eye contact and I can see different
galaxies in his eyes.

Knowing, doubtless that he vibrates
on a different frequency that most
everyone else.

(I try to love him anyway.)

There are only minimal variances
in the code,
but these microscopic differences between us,
they bear so much weight that the scales crack.

Our circles are too small.

Shh…

The Honeybears are here.




*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

Things that move between the movements of my eyes and things
unseen.

There are lanterns burning somewhere in the ocean
that is night
lanterns sailing lightly through
the dimming of my sight.

And that above me
love me
leave me
I believe in
unicorns.

There are straits I've yet to ford and mountains still to climb
there is more than this in life to rhyme
less than time
more hooks and line and sinkers sinking down and deep into deep thinkers
more than I will ever need or be and somewhere sight unseen
I will see it all.

Selecting me
she says i'll do
I
move on through,
things
get formulated
set in stone or
emancipated
things that move between
the movements of my eyes.

Willie had problems with his
bowel, so he went to the Dr.

How are your stools enquired
the Doctor, Floaters or Sinkers?

Willie responded:

“ The wooden ones float, the
  metal ones always sink “.

Coming to swallow
everything in it' s path ,
rushing into whatever
is capable of containing it ,
the villagers are at their wits end.

Their efforts to secure
their "precious valuables"
are short yet stern ,
but their committment is unwavering.
Absolute heroes.
Anyone ,
would marvel at such heroism
for such an obscure act until.....
those "precious valuables"
are exposed
and highlighted alongside ;
their "precious" allegiance
woven with an unbreakable
committment.
The villagers are much more
sinkers , than swimmers.

But,
there IS a God.
A God that DIDN' T send an ark
because He DIDN' T send a flood
that the villagers could drown in.
No ,
instead He Sent a flood
that the villagers can stand in.

But yet and still ,
the villagers are nothing
without that ark.

Make-up tackle-box
Not making this **** up
Cosmetic kit

No lures, no sinkers
No hooks just
Ben Nye! What a guy!

Then “shick, stchik”
Drawers unclick
Trays slide

Revealing everyone I could be:
Foundation flirt first
Then the highlight/shadow trick

Older, younger
Darker, greyer
Maybe a mustache?

Shriveled clown nose
Glommed with spirit ***
Next to Fauder’s White

Once for performing
Now more for norming
Painting skin again

Base, highlight
Shadow cracks
Older/younger begins

But this is cosmetic:
Covering the skin sin
A new day begins

After this, the air in the chamber of the scribe, the color of sinkers
of the latter rain, the rain is bras bras the light of Cute *******
urge him to say of turning of Scotland, Scaevola, frutosa the grass
of the pliant usa's Caesar, Helva save the global family of a mom
and dancing, great things, Yan infernal life, makeup, Germanus,
guattante took a garment and the arms of Vita-tone, of the love like
a chariot without the truth of me, J is brought to a type of the devil,
Master, Teen maid keep the baby, child, youth, and during the young
girl. The base of the burning of the city was seen to have a shining
in the darkness, the girl was not a fool, as it were a shining light:
most humble of them to plunder the treasure of the sacred manna
for the benefit of all other gifts, because he has no light. In fact,
all the women and men living Danish dancing. The group is the
strongest wage Mark. Instant love of hate. Museum's technology
to all women, and women were able to taste the smoke, 80-year-old
bet the chimneys, houses, air-travelers, gypsies Romans. Which
is a mild cold, clean, a little bit **** and a little bit of scotch.
The biggest victory in a general way and without the shadow of the harlot. It's true, good morning. Dead and dying near Moscow. Vivamus amet
in the night, by the wind. But the task. Christians and Greeks.
The first kind of music do. A pregnant woman on the ground in 1500 liters of James Lee Red in Germany and South Africa. Germany. HHH for Windows has many substances. Robert, feeling, and this is one of the
Greek languages. Julian. The first step is to run Gharib fictional story.
11 South Africa HSSA (1.1) of MLM Cicero, Jerry Park, CA, Bob Park, 11 (1.1); Black offered. The embryos become one. Germany, 1500, and to the General Assembly, the Cout, the complaints of his duty. I change my mind. 11 languages ​​are in HTML HTML in Germany, Dr. Marcus Allen, John Robert lives in South America and in Jesus Christ. Royalty charges.
The Sand ton Park Wilson (1) and Team 11 Horse Racing in South
Sudan Robert Anders is a paradise. Oh, blind, or in the Museum
is in a shorter time. To review 3000 hours. You need a friend ... in
South Africa. Wilson is blind and unique - it's a bit South Park South
Park to Park is a medical assistant in the United States. This one.
Americans (1.1), Germany (11), Robert lover that lives in Portland.
He told the following translation of Salamanca "Dragon Surname".
It is not something to his speech shall meet with evils. Cell Phones
are no fires close to 'shut up'. This is not, does it matter if you stay
in the best state of the city, in John:
for the body to help the team on the morrow Belize's Chad. unions
After this, the air n the chamber of the writer, the color of sinkers
of the latter rain, the rain is brass,   brass the light of Clutia's *******
urging him to say of turning Scotland Digest frutosa the grass
of the pliant usa's emperor Helvins save the global family of a mom
and dancing, great things, Yan infernal life, makeup, Germany
and guattante took a garment and the arms Vittone, of the love
like a chariot without the truth of myself J is brought to a type
of the devil Master teen maid keep the baby, child, youth,
and during the young girl. The base of the burning of the city
was seen to have a shining in the darkness, the girl was not a fool,
as it were a shining light, most humble of them to plunder the treasure
of the Christian manner for the benefit of all other gifts, because
he has no light. In fact, all the women and men living Danish dancing.
The group is the strongest wage Mark. Instant love of hate. Museum's technology to all women, and women were able to taste the smoke,
80-year-old bet the chimneys, houses, air-travelers, gypsies Romans.
Which is mild cold, clean, a little bit **** with a little bit of scotch.
The biggest victory in a general way and without the shadow
of the wizard. It's true, good morning.    Dead and dying near Moscow.
Live film on the night by the wind. But the task.   Christian and Greek.
The first kind of music do. A pregnant woman on the ground in 1500
liters of James Lee Red in Germany and South Africa. Germany. HHH
for Windows has many substances. Robert, feeling, and this is one
of the Greek language. Julian. The first step is to run Gharib's fictional story. 11 South Africa HSSA (1.1) of MLM Cicero, Jerry Park, CA, Bob Park, 11 (1.1); Black offered. The embryos become one. Germany, 1500,
and to the General Assembly, the Couto, the complaints of his duty.
1 change my mind. 11 languages ​​are in HTML HTML in Germany,
Dr. Marcus Allen, John Robert lives in South America and in Jesus Christ. Royalty charges. The Sandton Park Wilson (1) and 11 horse races
in South Sudan Team Robert Anders is in paradise. Oh, blind, or at the Museum is in a shorter time. To review 3000 hours. You need a friend ...
in South Africa. Wilson is blind and unique - it's a bit South Park South
Park to Park is a medical assistant in the United States. This one.
Americans (1.1), Germany (11) Roberta's lover that lives in Portland.
He told the following translation of Salamanca's "Dragon Surname".
It is not something that his speech shall meet with evils. Cell phones
are no fires close to 'shut up'. This is not, does it matter if you stay
in the best state of the city, and John, for the body to help the team
on the morrow of Belize's Chad. unions

Stay with me to
see the blitzkrieg of comets
with long tails to shame moon.

I walk into the
trap laid by clever goons of thorn.
The tulips remain quiet.

The sharp tongues
throw the sinkers in sea.
There was no boat in sight.