featured in the poetry forum October 13, 2016  :: 0 comments

I don’t know how to feel about this
Seems to be my mantra these days
I put on some Reverend Green
Look out the window and think and
My whirled up thinkings follow me
To the king spa all skin of tawny
All shapes and shades under the dim light scrubbing
Away our sadness and week
Of unreleased grime
How can you mend a broken heart?
Released under hot veil of bubbles
Sweat out on concrete stools
With tied bunches of herbs
Sloughed off and dripping
In here, no one can see you cry

I don’t know how to feel about this
The small framed Korean ladies
Dainty but strong
Straddle the Western thighs
Of the Americas scrubbing with both hands
To peel away the layers of regret
Shearing us down to a more manageable
Morsel of grief
Buttered skin and then we rinse
The waterfall
Take me to the river
And wash me down
Won’t you cleanse my soul
Put my feet on the ground

And all the other countries say
Look at what those crazy cowboys have done now
Shoot’ em up style
With their guns and their bombs and their drones
Look at what they have sown
It’s all still the wild wild west
Outlaws insatiable for blood
Bang bang, shoot ‘em up and gone
Oh those crazy Americans

I’m just trying to escape into my bowl of Ramyun
I’m just trying to sleep in the dark blanket of Al Green
Mercy Mercy Me
I don’t know how to feel about any of this anymore.

editors note:

A wasting week to wash away in radio and ramen. – mh clay

If I could

featured in the poetry forum July 13, 2015  :: 1 comment

If I could
Just hold on
To the tail ends sweeping
The talk
And mediocre
Could blind my eyes to your dissatisfaction
Close my ears to the silence
Break open windows in the airless room
Love the loveless
Sleep the forbidden dreams
In masks and riddles
And know your broad shoulders
Told no lies

Poor red
Pour red
In me
These violent things
I cannot sing

If I could
Intercept the gravity
That pulls my arms
And legs of scaffolds
Open wings
And claw marks
To questions
And tumble in your hair
That gives me pause

Poor red
Pour red
In me
These violent things
I cannot sing

If I could
Stub toes of journey
In the meandering night
And hear the music
Not aided by keys of smoke
But by your gentle sighs
Even so I long for the melodies
Unending in our love

Poor red
Pour red
In me
These violent things
I cannot sing

If I could just
Crack like sunshine
On the turning land
Burnish the fields
And plump the opiates
Of their moaning tendrils
Could blind my eyes to your dissatisfaction
Close my ears to the silence
Break open windows in the airless room
Love the loveless
Sleep the forbidden dreams
In masks and riddles
And know your soft lips
Told no lies

editors note:

Oh, yes! If we could (a pour for the poor), we would… wouldn’t we? (Another mad missive from Opalina on her page; something for breakfast – check it out.) – mh clay

Desayuno Con Mama Quilla

July 13, 2015  :: 0 comments

(Breakfast with Mama Killa)

A butterfly cut of crimson
Folded over
Lap napkins of skin

Rivulets burgundy
Pinstripes of sin
Sangre sacrada
Red clay pottery
On painted
In open palms
Licked off fingertips

She plunges her moonlight
Inside the vacancy
Pulling invisible
Scarlet walls
Ghost tremors
Of heartbeats
And tiny toes
Kicking away

As so she pulls the waves
From the sea
She pulls the life
From me
Breaking the fast
With a deluge
Of regret
Aimless semen
Scrambled eggs.

Squinting in the light

May 3, 2014  :: 0 comments

Hark! What light thru yonder bedsprings breaks?
It’s morning and the mockingbird is pecking it’s smeck under
dripping dew
Glistened blades of cerulean
Shimmering night crusted sleep
Crackles open
Newborn day
Gasps into nicotine stained lungs
Prism sun dappled your sleeping
Wondrously makes me squint in delight

This poem was commissioned by our Poetry Editor in September, 2013. Opalina was offering to write poems for spending money, and MH responded:

        OK, interesting!
        I would like 2 poems:
        Subject 1 – whistling in the dark
        Subject 2 – squinting in the light
        See where ur mojo takes you… mh

        This is one of the two poems she delivered.

Whistling in the dark

May 3, 2014  :: 0 comments

Teardrop stalactites

Water crest
Marimba tones on unseen terrains
Your hollow heart echoes these refrains
As I whistle in the dark
In lieu of calling your name

This poem was commissioned by our Poetry Editor in September, 2013. Opalina was offering to write poems for spending money, and MH responded:

        OK, interesting!
        I would like 2 poems:
        Subject 1 – whistling in the dark
        Subject 2 – squinting in the light
        See where ur mojo takes you… mh

        This is one of the two poems she delivered.

I’m Considering Klonopin

featured in the poetry forum May 3, 2014  :: 0 comments

because the cool white void
of oblivion
rests better behind my eyes
the mechanical flow of
morning to night
gets covered in English ivy
corners softened
spine released
green smells green
air has promise
my circumstance of daggers and wild eyes
misguided kismet
and spoiled dinner
can be saved
under the blanket of chemicals
it brings
the banal becomes beautiful
the erratic, iridescent
my desires are few
complacent calm in the ocean
of malice
kind eyes
laughter and open smiles
i can categorize your faces
French film frowns
Bogart lips and
cool cigarette exhale
sad baby teardrops on
the patio
tender kiss it away
and forget
i’m considering a drink
the bitter twist
it masks
my skin
blistered and pickled
to carve the edges of my skull
clean of all culpability
to shrug and wink seductively
dabble my fingertips in its wet
sexy mouth
and still wake the nagging complexities
that never get resolved
under its heavy slosh
and languid rolls
my vessel is always struggling
over the angry waves
of hops, grapes and fermented things
I’m considering an escape
a knapsack with music, notebooks and pills
walking shoes and no destination
asphalt or dirt roads
to caress with rambling
poems and songs
a blank memory to keep me walking
away from broken things
i can’t replace
a hearth with no heat
a library with no lights
a bed with no love
a heart with no beat
revolving sheets that leave me cool
in the night
fevered in worry
i’m considering Klonopin
because the reasons
are grinning at me
from the tree branches
like Cheshire cats
its the only way
i know how to
shame them
name them as my own
personify and destroy
with chemical formula symbols
my daggers
dulling the loneliness
of the compartments of my mind
in time it will all boil over the sunset
in pill capsule yellows
and i will dance freely again
but until then
i’m considering Klonopin

editors note:

We’re all chemical constructs anyway. So, what the hell? – mh

This is one for the insincere bitches

August 20, 2010  :: 0 comments

This is one for the insincere bitches
For the party guests celebrating nothing
For the amplified mediocrity
And the mandatory love slot machines
The slow motion syrup dispensers
The honey coated strings and things of manifest
Of seriousness, deliriousness
Debacles of forced strangeness
And new shit the new shit the new shit I wrote
This one is for the good old boys
The keepers of keys to imaginary worlds
Promises and rock star manifestations
Celebrations of specialness
With tasteless layers of cake
Spread out on wasted tables of disgrace
This is for the depressed spectators of life
Sucking the cock of the microphones like
Transgender concubines
Whirling turbines of the inevitable
Inevitable cycle that will crush itself
Empty spectacles
Word receptacles that will chew and spit you
Back out into bastardized versions
Of yourself, no self, himself out of herself
Never recognizing the softness and purity that
One could encumber themselves gently on
Like swaying clothes on a line on a spring day
Whether they may or may not come to this
Hard conclusion it is delusion to think that anything
Pure should come of this now
No not now
When the wind has been taken from the pure sails and
When soul has been plucked nay torn from the chests
No, breasts of us…see the rest of us
Had stock in something different
Something better than the regret that has split asunder
The plundered sunlight that only a woman
A real woman can bring to the world
One milky pearl of a word at a time
Generation gap set aside
I will no longer stand alone and reside
In the subservient role of your back handed
Remarks, the snide comments or exclusions,
The condescendence and pats on the shoulders
Or the gushing oh the over-the-top gushing
The spirit crushing feeling we get after hours of
The settling in that we are not accepted, merely
Tolerated in your cartoon character parade

If we’re not top heavy or we are too emotionally heavy
Or if we’re big girls who wear our big girl panties
Or we’ve got the brains and we know how to use them
And we’re not afraid to use them, it’s your own delusion
That makes you think you can mistreat us underhandedly
Then go back to your dens and puff on your tobacco filled
Dicks yes this still exists in our own arena or at least in
My world it seems to, I don’t know why.

This is not for the sincere loves

August 20, 2010  :: 0 comments

This is not for the sincere loves
For the funeral that celebrates everything
For the whispering brilliance
The fast and furious vinegar wells
Bitter sour oranges marinating
nothing undone
Of humor and health
Meditation of simple norms
And the old nourishment the old nourishment the old nourishment I lived
That one is not for the misfit
The minion with the locks to the real unknown
The void of common man pacifying
Mourning of the bland
Without Delicious Shit
Stacked on muddy floors of gracefulness
This is not for the jovial participant of death
Spitting the vulvular confines of open air like
Humanoid wives
Stationary wells of the obvious
Obvious linear renewal
Abundant day to day
Speech dispersing that will suck and swallow
Into the original
Of everyone, myself, herself into himself
Always unaware of the hard and debase
Many who couldn’t unencumber others brashly under
Unlike rigid nakedness circling a fall evening
I will or I will not go away from that
Soft question and realization to act that one
Unholy thing shouldn’t become
Yes now
When the stillness has been given to the unholy nets
And the receptacle has been birthed, yes glued to the guts
Yes back of mine, blind to the masses
Empty of anything similar
Anything worse than the intent that hasn’t been complete
The given moonlight that only a man
A false man can take from the unknown
Many dirty stones of silence all at once
Peers embraced
I will sit together in transience
In the dominance of my forthright thoughts
The genuine litany and inclusions
The exhaustion and slaps on the face
Or the loathing the underling loathing
The uplifting numbness I never receive before minutes
Of moving that I am accepted
Not tolerated in reality’s solitary march

If I’m not bottom light or numb
Or a little girl devoid of maturity
Or If I’m unequipped and cannot act
And I’m fearful of it’s uselessness
It’s my own reality that doesn’t create action for caring, and openness
The come to my open fields and drink from my empty vapory vulva
No this ceases to exist in the outer world
Or at its fullest in the unknown
It doesn’t seem to
And I know why.

open your mouth wide

featured in the poetry forum August 20, 2010  :: 0 comments

open your mouth wide
and let your tounge roll out the words
as lemon sours hitting linoleum
or silverware chiming on the kitchen floor
spread open box of matchsticks on the counter
open it wider still
cymbal crashes
dumptruck kaboom
squealing tires and crunching metal
open wide open wide wide open
let me see your molars glistening
and the peek of your softness
coming out in scarlet red notes of fury
shake your dreads
stand the hairs on my arms at attention
nipples erect
nether regions listening
Open your mouth
like broken hydrants on summer days
steaming on pavements like relief
slot machine payloads
flashing lights and grasping hands
shirts cupped under to catch the waves
rolling rolling on the inevitable
gold truth
split open yr lips
like broken orange peels
effervescing on my cheeks
lemon squirts in my eyes
bottle corks flying
hot foam spitting down
dry throats
without pretention
without labels
no history
no future
and I they all will follow
like black birds breaking their structured flight
boldly dipping, dotting the sky in masterful truth.

an invitation to the truth

August 19, 2010  :: 0 comments

I invite all makers and lovers of beauty into my heart tonite.

Everything I write
is what it is
be what it be
is what it be
taken with the upshot imagery
of the Buddhas
and the screaming
dull seas,
because the sky is bullshit
and the spirit is
and has no fault.

i seek all that can hold in compassion
the words that i’m spilling out
to be my absolute truth
or not.
and kindness thats ripe
so that i may learn
and teach to learn
these things i yearn
and drum up in me
the patchy winds
of sobriety
so that i don’t jacky don’t jacky up
50 means goodbye
and bloated and loving my poor dead mother
too long.

sad eyed ladies
bemouthed of lazy
want free cigarettes
want to fuck
before they turn 34,
won’t wear yellow
to shame the sun and only come out
when there is a battle to
be won.

in blues mens clothes
to batter my weather in
button and tie
and fend off all the matters
and live like a monk
with the holy virgin mary
my only lover
fends me free of
my femininity
and the choices that
are so impossible.


can you heal me?

with drink tickets
plastic baggies
and promises of adventure
to crave your attention on long verby tick tack typing
mesmerized on the stature of you
in the faint light reflections of yester donts
hoping that the
shake bump bump shake bump bump shake bump bump shake…
will break your from your sleep
to come home to your 2 point one
thick with dissapointments…

You don’t even know my friends.
How could you?
rowdy and horny,
the kind of people who will smuggle a
bottle of whiskey into a bar
only to later drop it on the floor
like a baby slick with bathwater
and love the night
all the more
we with talent that cannot be denied

give me the beat with stolen harmonica
give me the beat with stolen kisses
give me the beat with worn out alcohol eyes

pass the joint
give me a nother ciggaboo
and watch the birds flock away from the wild eyed
drunk as fuck poets
standing on the corner
outside my favorite
open mic..

where we go
to fuck you up.

we are here to fuck you up

we are you in your unadulterated form
we are the lifeless drones in the cubicles
we are the eat shit for dinner retail whores
we are the two fifty an hour waitresses
we are the stay at home moms
we are the warehouse workers
we are the do what you can’ers
we are the manic depressive solos
we are the older once were younger’s

and this is something that you just don’t understand
you can’t understand
in your tired
version of us.

i thought i was old
until i ran into a poet
who had no soul.
you don’t even know.

how could you?