Don’t take me home
nostalgia lingers in my soul
like the taste of that forbidden fruit
like the taste of water and air when drowning

don’t take me home
a survivalist without nostalgia
is a fish out of water

quietly listen to the quest of my heart
as each drift is justified
and each love story
is a battlefield
a ****** fight  

I fear
I, the survivalist, fear
becoming nostalgic for love.

Does the night appeal or is it day,
Does staying close or going far away,
taste better, take your time to digest,
oh this isn't a poll.
just let the answers roll
from the tip of your nib
to the lined paper,
what causes you to fear and what, feels safe,
which is worse homeless man or war-torn waif?
do you prefer white or red,
beer in a bottle or in a glass,
milk chocolate or dark (only 5.7 grams per day)
are you a survivalist or an escapist,
do you drink too much water or not enough,
I can ask a million questions,
okay I exaggerate this stuff.

think for the moment if each choice was only between two,
would there be a pattern, or would you be able to undo,
decisions made that let your cards show before they
were played?

My life keeps me humble,
                        as I jumble,
through my day
                     and mumble,
to myself,
not in jest,
not in play,
I am not certain,
who I am, who am I?
                         I bumble
about the place
as busy as a bee,
do not stop to
look in a mirror
       at my face.

There is a chance I won't recognize me.
I walk quickly so as
to appear not to stumble,
      my stomach rumbles,
and squeals at
different pitches,
bring on the whale
song, sing along
if you know the
words.

This what the pace of life does
leaves me jumbled, I dabble in
dark chocolate, too many times
a day, I love the taste of red,
just a glass or it may go to
                                my head,
I get my heart
pounding in my chest,
wish it was from
working out and not
be stressed.

Enough of me and how are you?
You look good, time pays you
a compliment, love what you
have done with your hair, excuse
me for a moment incoming jumble.

I walk my dog, or does the dog walk me,
fix a leaky hose or just turn off the tap,
the roof creaks over head, are there
rodents in the attic, even in this heat?
The clouds that hang in the sky tonight,
will bring rain to jack up the humidity,
some one some where in their stupidity,
will be flying a kite, Ben Franklin style.
I hope he does not suffer for his enlightenment

So down the Hydro easement in a "house known
to police" something exploded and burns of the
second degree caused trauma and the air ambulance
came in low over our kitchen, shaking the walls
and dog, both have recovered nicely thanks

So they took the burn victim to the hospital
to get fixed up, wherein I ask is there a cure for
stupidity,
humidity, getting in my head,
if I did not have a portable AC
by my bed, not very green of me, eh?
Ooops now you know I am Canadian,
sorry, confirmed, I will just jumble my way
off to bed, I will let you get back to more
important stuff instead...



©DWE072013

Again.
You leave.
Leaving me lifeless.
Life’s lessons are learned
Like this.
Through crisis.
Through hurt,
Through grief.
Heartbreaks make a survivalist.
Burnt out from the time I was
Seventeen;
Burst,
My heart has been set out for all to see;
Plainly strung up in pieces,
Like leaves
Hanging
Precariously on a tree,
Made from the bones and ashes of lovers
I’d never meet,
Each new year bringing a wind that rips
them from their branches,
A wind that dances through my memory.
This year it was you.
Turning me golden like maple leaves in
autumn my mind’s marked me as a dying
season.
And you,
You treated me like a poison.
Times testaments teach
To forgive
...Within reason.
You were a part of me
And I committed treason.

he told me,
"the problem with our flesh,
is that it doesn't do so well
as to protect our bones;
you may prefer your heart to be bare
for the sake of calming the wolves
that you let slick your throat
with their rabid tongues,
but I know you know
that it's better to be the iron you taste,
than to be the polish for a man's gums,
and the wax for his teeth."

he painted my forehead
with the vermilion broth
he brewed from the throat of the hare,
and mopped his fingers clean
with my tongue
as we watched the vermin
give one last kick.

"but if you insist,
then I will be your cage
as I am your hunter,
and nothing will chew through
your pretty collarbone
before me."

My Darling, My Dearest
I sink to the dirt,
My regrets swirl around my body like a brides wedding dress.
White lace, virginal unsoiled regrets lay about me lazily-
biting my ankle, scratching up my legs to be held.
My Cherished Treasure,
I will carry my torment like an old man carries his walking stick
Gnarled with time and miles,
before any step I will take-
My regret will mark the path.
And I will walk for all of time with my walking stick. I will walk until I bend over in a broken bridge of bones, all the while letting my regret lead me onward.
My Beloved,
I will wallow in the mud of my sorrows and grief
I will roll and dry, caking dirt on my belly-
like the beast I have become.
My Beautiful,
The wounds that mortification of the flesh will produce-
will be sorry attempts to understand your pain.
The whip braided in tight thick leather
but I can never cut deep so I might
produce enough depth so instead will I bleed-
another sin, another crime!
I cannot feel your suffering-can only guess at the depth.
Oh the endlessly black waters of your sorrow!
I hold my breath, stones piled deep in my pockets.
I dive, I dive...wanting, needing this sacrifice.
But **** this survivalist in me. My lungs betray me-
sputter and cough.
I inhale my water of my sins and breathe them deep so I may drown and
free you from the shackles of my crimes.
My Cherished one, my Shining one-
Forgive this old sinner, forgive this reprobate heart.
For I love you.
When the stars exploded, when universes expanded
I loved you.
When the first blade of grass poked it's willful head above soil,
I loved you.
When first Adam kissed Eve,
I already loved you.
In the next life where you are caterpillar and
I am stump,
I love you then too, and beg you use me to reach closer the sun.
Forgive a fool his foolish ways, he knows no better
Forgive me, cherished one
and let me love you,
Let me love you as the faulted love the Divine. As the sinner loves the penance, as the child loves the stars.
Let me give you the moon, let me put it in on your lips.
So you may kiss the moon, beloved, kiss the moon.

Sahn 7/6/14

Protected by a suit of dreams
And armed with a smile
He came out of nowhere
And went his own way

Seemingly believing nothing
And walking in no-one else's footsteps
He follows no rules without reasons
But he knows right from wrong
And he knows that's what matters

In a world of easy hypocrisy
Where compassion is stifled by fear
And belief is a reason to hate
To hate and destroy other beliefs
He goes his own way

                              By Phil Roberts

I feel an enormous serenity - floating in some lover's limbo.

Spectate the scene in silhouette.

While bittersweet coffee cuddles my palette.

I can finally breathe.

So why do I feel like a survivalist?

On a long haul where perceptions hinder.

For now I stay floating.

I love reading Bukowski
and if I could pick one person to have dinner with,
he would be it.
He got it.
And I want to tell him I think I get it.
In his poem one tough mother fckr, he talks about this survivalist cat. How this cat inspired him and he holds up the cat
and says this is what its about, look,
and they don't get, and the cat knows its *******.
I love how he said it was a beautiful fight, still is.
And how winning the war within yourself is worth winning.
I want to get drunk with him and tell him I think I get it.
I have fought battles and wars my entire life, and find it beautiful. There's a beauty in finding peace and letting go.
In getting up everyday when you have no reason to.
Plowing through the hard days and then looking back on the good ones, smiling, knowing you made it.
Battle worn, scarred, older, maybe wiser.
Certainly takes more whiskey to get you drunk
and more cigarettes to fill the lungs
More pills to help you sleep but you're still here, tough mother f@ck*r
It was a beautiful fight, still is.
The battle is never over.
For some, there's always another around the bend.
Small victories and large defeats.
And I celebrate them all.
because if there was ever a fight worth winning, you are it.
None of us are getting out alive, its the living that matters.
So live well enough that death trembles to take us.
I want to tell him I think I get it.
And have a bottle or two with him.
And celebrate him and myself and it all, the good and the bad
and live before I die.

I am America
Conqueror
Conquered
Indentured
Old world roots
New world trees

I am America
To overcome
To transform
To dream
To live
To die

I am America
Native
Black
Brown
White
Mulatto

I am America
Soldier
Protestor
Fire
Healer
Flower

I am America
Christian
Jew
Muslim
Agnostic
Atheist

I am America
Master
Slave
Rich
Poor
Divided

I am America
Capitalist
Socialist
Environmentalist
Activist
Survivalis­t

I am America
Weak
Strong
Freedom
Dysfunction
Uncertain

I am America
Diverse
Tolerant
Racist
Hate
Love

I am America
So it is written
Natural born
Inalienable rights
Created equal
I am you

it’s not difficult
to know what to do
with 500 heads of garlic
but the garlic scapes
that’s another question

i’ve been grinding them
with basil, oil, nuts
and parmesan and freezing
the pesto
but the freezer is stuffed now
with strawberries and soon
the beans will come
then the broccoli
and the kale

i’m not a survivalist
but if the electricity
were ever to be cut
for a day,
well, i’d have to
haul out the generator and
today I picked up my old
two horsepower pump
from the shop
i use it to draw water up from
the pond which is 10 meters
lower than the garden
i am gradually learning to
look after myself

it’s been a lifelong project

Hey dad did you know
the chicken we keep
locked in the garage
lays brown eggs
in the dusty stacks
of disregarded things?
Did you know I find every one?
A survivalist Easter hunt
in a salmonella **** shed.
You didn't know because
I never told you, for fear
you'd eat them as a joke,
or worse throw them away.
But you left the door open
and she's gone anyway.

Hey dad did you know
my car broke down on 17th street?
You do because I called you
on your way to church at midnight.
You wished me luck.
You'll pray for me.
You gave me the car,
thank you.

Hey dad did you know
that I once used
your hand made birthday card
to stop the bleeding of a neighbor boy
who thought your Scottish swords were fake?
No you don't because you weren't home.

Hey dad do you realize
you voted against me this year?
I lost my insurance last week.
You do know, but do you care?
You keep saying that you love me.
You yelled at all my races.
Asked for prayers when I had surgery.
Learned the names of all my friends.
Read my poetry when I was 13.

But hey dad did you know
that was never what I needed?

I needed a dad that didn't
have the nerve to joke
about how I made
new families with my dolls,
and friends when I was older.
I needed a dad who instead of
acting like his family was taken from him
kept his together.

And smaller things too.
I needed money for school.
I needed doctor visits.
I need my insurance now, dad.
I needed food, and a dad
who picked me up from school.

And a dad that instead of praying for me
raised me like my life wasn't broken,
raised me like I didn't always owe him.

It's chaos, chaos everywhere!

The economy has collapsed

All the major cities have been attacked
The U.N. and military is on the street

Our food supply has been cut off

They are hauling people off to FEMA camps

They tell you to go the camps
There is food there they say

But they are executing people there!
Stay away

Run, run
Where to run

People are acting like animals
America, our America is ruined

Some political dissidents were taken
From their homes in trucks
Their weapons seized

And all I have is food and water
For a few days
My can opener
A knife

I'm not a master survivalist
I would have bought everything
But I never had the money

I want to live
I want to live
I will live
I will live

They try to make you scared
With their guns and megaphones

And martial law
Martial law across the nation

And will I stay at home
Will they try to seize our emergency food
Or will I flee

Flee to the place of refuge that I know

Have mercy on me Lord, a sinner
Terrible trials have come upon us

I pray that I will do what is right
In your eyes

Our America
What has become of our America
Of this nation

The terrible times
I think they are near

I was supposed to choose
A program
They call it a "life"

I decided not to choose
Any of the life programs
That were offered to me

But to create my own

Recording
Recording

My brain is always recording

A world that is both infinite
And mostly meaningless

Forget a full-time career
Forget money

I envision
A terrible time
On its way for America

I am not a good enough
Survivalist
They want you to be dependent

I don't have all the things
I need to survive

Sitting here in my car
Waiting for the taxpayer
To leave from his lunch break

Thankful for what?
I've lost myself and gained an insight into my own stupidity, my own arrogance. I think that I think too much. I think that I know too much. I think I'm right much of the time. (I'm not.)

What am I? Who am I?
I feel like I know who I am.
But, I need to be something too.
And, that, friends, is the lizard-faced terror of our Capitalist society.

Some of us know who we are and that is definition enough.
Others of us need more than one definition.
Poet.
Writer.
Raconteur.
Able to stave off poverty,
socioeconomic savior?
Survivalist instructor to the less-fortunate?

What am I now?
Not very much at all.

This is not a good line of thinking.

My self-talk is not very good these days.

I want to make something happen.

Doors opening or closing,
is the hell of this particular hallway.

There are no open doors.
Every one of them is locked.

My kicking is bootless
as are my cries.

(Positively Shakespearean!)

I'm waiting for someone who carries a key.
This is not my style.
I want to wreck some rooms.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019

I carry the burden
of always caring
for the ones that wouldn't dare
for the ones that have passed
for the ones not yet
brought to life

My heart has the capacity
to sustain time and decay
And regardless of what people say
my heart is bigger than
my body in every way

I am a survivalist
I make it through every list
and every room has
different views

Packed to the maximum
I still find the knowledge
to out last the best of 'em

I am an old soul
that has survived
even the harshest of cold
in a body that is
made of solid gold

Certain bumps in the night
things stop collecting
over periodic time
No longer feeling of fright

And my guide is built
for endless fights

Forecasting to thunderous applause
fast as greased lightning draws
upon futuristic atmospheric gewgaws
hot air emanates out these slackened jaws
spluttering courtesy indentured maws
armed with four footed tall paws
gesticulations resembling horizontal seesaws.

Humidity felt across every square inch
covering these lovely bones,
which pores will dribble perspiration
bracing for onset when
meteorological conditions
spell utter lethargy, I unroll the welcome mat
and present global warming!

Every year I seem less tolerant
when oppressive climate
(specifically merciless heat waves)
blasts one anachronistic, dogmatic, and generic
garden variety weatherbeaten **** sapiens
reduced to torpid inert state.

Central air conditioning quickly
found this creature comfortably acclimated,
who defies, contradicts, bumps uglies...
up against rugged individualist,
yet he meekly professes
spouting ideal survivalist ethos
admitting actual propensity as
nothing else matter
barely distinguishable traits differentiating
yours truly among braggarts
visited by the unforgiven sandman
exhibiting all talk no action.

Analogous to weather scorching
the blackest soul,
a similar aversion exists
toward severe wind chill factor temperatures
plunging mercury way below zero.

When regarding conditions linkedin
with extreme heat index
smothering Perkiomen Valley,
this bloke (residing what seems
since time immemorial
at Highland Manor Apartments) burrows
when heart touched by fire
into sixty degree Fahrenheit
fella climate control mancave,
thus adieu go doldrums
figuratively strait jacketing
yours truly no more.

Unlike luxury to chill out (literally)
back quite scores of years ago
central air conditioning absent
imposing grueling hardship
no deliverance afforded tender vittle Earthling.

When referenced human (me),
he formerly (passively) weathered
humid, hot, and hazy
dog days of summer,
during his boyhood at 324 Level Road.

Said storied estate with manicured formal gardens
lacked luxuriating aforestated amenity
regarding cool (temperature wise) climate control
introducing anonymous reader
familiar or otherwise
regaling modest literary versatility,
whereby yours truly average bloke
Fahrenheit dealt with temperatures
registering bajillion blistering degrees.

Especially upper level housing bedrooms
about half dozen steps above landing
suddenly experiencing indisputable
scientific principle hot air rises
undermining ability to function,
no more active matter rendered lifeless,
but rather equally inert think deathlessness
as an inanimate object
mainly cuz estate - complex edifice
formerly christened "Glen Elm"
built approximately turn of

twentieth century abode -
once encompassed
one hundred plus acre demesne
unfortunately long since razed
(initially intended as summer retreat)
preceding never incorporating
said modern HVAC conveniences,
now no modern building
lacked fantastic amenities,
plus ability to tolerate hardship
much more omnipresent
before yours truly

racked quite numerous
orbitz round the sun
versus now, when
greater sensitivity prevails,
I admit pioneer spirit plummeted,
and if forced to forego
custom tailored environment
would be immovable prey,
for even the most
harried styled counting crow king carrion,

which admission would
only present challenge
predicated on severe disruption
compromising being hermetically
sealed, linkedin, cocooned...
within man-made dwelling
hardship analogous no name brand
garden variety slug
essentially homeless snail
shell lacked with mew cuss.

More passer
Than dribbler
The scritch and scratch
Scribbler
My flow is a river
In come what May
Winters
I swim in the shiver
And even in bloom
All my numinous
Withers
My luminous
Gloom
Still obscured
To the witness
My freakiest nature
Survivalist
Fitness
A wishlist
Of ashes
Compassion
Impulse
And with tact
My collapsing
Synapses
Convulse