V
I stand
I sit
On the verge
On the cusp
No commitment
Not sure
I tell myself
These days are like that
The truth is not clear
The way is not open
The roads
They do not lead home
Detached from
Direction
Blind-sided by
Form
It is easy to lose sight of
The mountain heart
Covered by clouds
And far from this place
I sometimes forget
Its bright emptiness
Looking up now
At your
White flowing robes
I tell myself
I don’t need to go back
To climb the steps again
Cycling seeking a sage. (This is one of the poems from JH’s recent release of “Three Steps.” You can get your copy here. Congrats, JH!) – mh clay
Such a small bed
Such a bad hotel
Flashback
Neon sign
Flashing
Fifteen dollars
No breakfast
Cheap rate
One dollar
Twenty minutes
And not a minute more
Not pretty
Not cool
Not quiet
The only pictures –
My private collection
A black and white trail
Of late-night prints
Hard lines
And soft curves
High contrast
Monotone
Baby
Baby
I move your arm
And look down at the bottle
I need to breathe
After all of this time
I still want to
Recognise this reflection
Where Michelin is just a tire. – mh clay
In the field
There are crops
Maize
Barley
Corn
While in the city
There are whispers
Old tales
Of new beasts
Given flight
By their shadow
I bring my breath back
To the food
To the breeze
This April brought frost
And cherry blossom
Reap riot and ruin or bring back breeze. – mh clay
I walk with no target
No aim and no gun
For what I see here
Will always be here
All of the
Alleged incidents
and nights without sleep –
They are my lighter
My papers
My rolled cigarette
The rumours of iniquity
The bad reputation
They may burn
But they do not kill
The repeating regret
The compounded trauma
This life after life
Whatever that means
I do not know
I never had a track
I never had a path
I do not lace my dreams
With those things
For once
Believe me
It will never change
The mind and its machinery
The trick of the light
I stare into darkness
And see only stars
After the start, comes the finish; whatever the path between. Check out those stars! – mh clay
I press the bell
Check out my reflection
And throw the key upon reception
It’s now time
To forget about the time
To strip myself of clothes
And to wreath these bones
In plumes of opiated smoke
And bathe them in the cheapest whiskey
It’s time to drain another glass
To stroke the disconnection wider
To lie back upon the unmade bed
And watch the door open
Of course she doesn’t need to knock
How many times
Have we been here before?
My full pair of parting lips
My paid for company
“Come here, darling…”
Come join me in this loneliness
Come watch it bend and buck
See our shadows join and writhe now
Across the heavy breathing walls
“So big…”
This lie we pay to procreate
“So hard…’
These low-lit nights
We burn away
With pornographic repetition
“Baby…”
The money is all there
No more need
To keep up the act or pretense
“Tomorrow?”
“Maybe…”
But for now – I think not
As the door closes on her figure
Stood alone
Naked fried
I think only of the dawn
As it comes in – creeping uninvited
Through the cracks
In the pale-skinned curtains
Its too loud cars and turned up rays
Lay bare
The alcoholic sweat and blackened sheets
Of this tin foil mind
Yes
The outside world may be waking now
But I am still inside a dream
A concrete view
A red-eyed reflection
Neither here nor there
Alone, with or without company. Sheltered in place, but never from self. – mh clay
‘ …La nuit, tous les chagrins se grisent; de tout son cœur on aimerait, que disparaissent à jamais, les papillons noirs, les papillons noirs, les papillons noirs…’ From inside his black pea-coat, Jacques took out his phone and looked at its cracked screen. Why he hadn’t changed the ring tone, he had no idea. It had been over seven years …
It’s raining today
And yesterday was fine
The Masters
Know the way of heaven
The green jade melody
Strung between moments
Flushed with the dawn
The sun comes and the stars go
That is the way of things
To look out of my window
To burn paper with the doubt
That is the dew of clouds I lead
Back through midnight
Back through worlds
The rain falls harder on the morning pass
I will not proceed
When moving is not being, and being is not moving. (J H says, This poem is “very much in line with a digital pamphlet of poetry I have made available for free through my own page here.” Check it out!) – mh clay
Jack didn’t know why, but over the last year he’d been thinking about that day a lot. It wasn’t a day that had been out of the ordinary. And it wasn’t a day that he could recall that he’d really thought about for more than thirty years. But there it was anyway. Just as it had been for the last …
I do not recognise
My city
I do not recognise
My country
Not because
I do not have one
But because I have too many
Worldwide
But isolated
I do not have the poles
Or the canvas
To build my own tent
Only a bag
To roll up
To move on
To flee
This dead city of mind
This barren country of mind
This long tall history of mind
With its flags
And its books
And their songs
And their words
Which can only fill holes
In its ash ridden borders
And not the vast depths
Of its fathomless heart
Still alive
And yet distant
Like the faintest beat of its waves
Still here –
In this blown speck of dust
Caught in the bright rays
Of its piercing light
We’re all refugees on this rock. – mh clay
“Brother, calm down. They will be here. Twenty more minutes, OK?” I don’t want to hear that. I really don’t. I have already been standing here in this two-bit DVD store for over half-an-hour. I don’t need it then. I need it now. “First, I fuck you, then my friend fuck you, OK?” And, no, I don’t want to hear …
