sparks erupt
from the
dragging of
shredded medal
on the
asphalt street.
a birds
eye view
of an
impending fire.
the only
phone in
the hallway
is broken.
she sits
cross-legged
in panties,
on the
bed, eating
raw almonds.
she reaches
over to
crank up
the music
on the
cheap radio,
as the
screaming begins.
Ecstacy, agony; if only to break the link, from a bird’s eye view. – mh clay
Android reality
pulses through
our lines
of life.
Give news
take news
false news
fake news.
We are
hard-wired
to receive
the noise
of what
we have
discarded into
the entire
space universe.
In a
cosmic way,
we have
reaped what
we’ve sown.
The fowl
have returned
to roost.
Our machines
have sputtered
mundane data
across lightyears
of the
modern era.
The great
age of
communication…
where no
one talks,
and worse,
fewer listen.
We have
morphed into
an age
of abeyance.
Listening for any voices except our own. (But, if I were them, I wouldn’t talk to us either.) – mh clay
The days become
entwined, like two
eager young lovers
drunk on wine.
The length of days
have become rather
indeterminate, given
the inconsistency of
dark and light.
Swiftly fly the
hours as well.
Eventually resulting
in lost time.
The birds sing
less as night
lingers with more
dark creating longer
more haunted nightmares.
Heat will soon
turn to winter
chilling what time
does remain us.
Math and science
should feel their
ways back to the
drawing boards to
refigure the sundial…
then move
ahead from there.
Meantime, maybe use mood rings? – mh clay
Drunk in the corner
and raining outside.
Someone reading
Sartre in French.
She came in,
slick as the street,
drank to herself,
but took it all in.
A short hunched-
back sells tablets
for a buck each,
and the chef is
fucking the waitress
while her child
screams for milk.
Some guy on a make-
shift stage is talking
about shooting-up
some nymph, then
licking her from toes
to brow as she
foams in a stupor.
He is a prophet
in his own mind.
The cast of some
bad ‘acid’ film.
In black and white,
with all its noise,
grain and other flaws.
The ‘slick’ one offers
the screaming kid milk,
as he claws her breasts.
A crack of thunder
from outside, and
it’s all gone…
just like that.
My head hangs limp.
Can’t begin to explain.
Quarant-erium tremens. Oh my! – mh clay
For C.R.R.
Like a calf
strayed from
its mother,
like an apple
rolled from its
tree.
Like a conch shell
alone on the ocean’s
floor,
I am abandoned,
without you with
me.
The state of loneliness
can never be mocked,
nor can it be endured.
Especially when feelings
have grown so real,
and love has so deeply
matured.
Here is one from the heart,
soft and sensitive,
like they say I never write…
because now I see, past
my lonely, dark soul,
your face in golden
light.
My tree, my tree, your apple I be. – mh clay
Sitting back
and watching,
after readings,
as they
share a
stick or
cheap booze.
Although I
cannot indulge,
I am
still enriched
by ‘Bohemians.’
Discussing the
‘Beats’ or
the ‘Lost
Generation’ over
peanut butter
sandwiches and
black coffee
till all
hours can
be therapeutic.
Quoting Blake,
Trashing Pound,
Exalting W.
C. Williams,
Committing Poe
To memory
In spite.
Speculating on
becoming noble
‘expatriates’ living,
barely thriving.
Great nights.
Love to
run them
again plus
ten… worth
at least
a couple of
college educations.
What makes our madness magical. Yes! Again plus ten… – mh clay
‘This is bull-shit’,
I thought to myself,
as this burned out
record producer poured
most of my ‘blow ski’ into a
vial of water and baking soda.
When it had coagulated
into solid form,
I took a hit from a
small glass pipe…
Heart pounded…
couldn’t swallow…
got the fear!
The others took to it like
flies to shit and started
handing him their vials.
I needed air.
I stepped out on the balcony.
There was a girl passed out in
a lounge chair, whom I didn’t
even bother to try and wake.
In the cool and clear of the
evening I could see the LA skyline
from Boyle Heights downtown to
Santa Monica Beach.
I opened my shirt against the
misty-cool night in an attempt
to un-alter myself.
When I could swallow again it
took me over a pint of Scotland’s
finest to feel normal again.
No more of that crap…
This could lead to ruination.
I didn’t touch that shit again…
even when it became fashionable.
Sometimes, it takes “the fear!” – mh clay
Crazy like that time
drunk on the high seas
with no life jackets.
Or seeing how high
you can count while
driving with eyes closed.
(Got to 64 once).
Enough about me.
I don’t know if she’s crazy.
She talks as if so.
Seems like some ‘lord’ or
another has got her
lock, stock, & barrel.
Got her believing in…faith;
stuff not seen or known.
Crazy like Russian roulette
with an automatic.
Bucking the odds in a
disreputable casino….
drinking without thirst.
Back to me.
Maybe I’m wrong.
Maybe I’m crazy.
Maybe I’m too crazy
to realize I’m crazy.
Maybe I do come from dust
and not from amoeba.
From women, not apes.
I’m not crazy!
I know those voices aren’t
real…especially the one
that says it’s G-d.
editors note: Everyone is normal when crazy determines crazy. (We welcome S.A. to our (normally) crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay
A swim at the beach by night
and a bottle of cheap ‘Port’.
Beans and weenies at the hotel.
The muted sound of a Sax from
an open window across the alley.
An orange moon begs to share
light despite the drawn curtains.
Love lies dying in the dark
she exhales like a deflated balloon.
Alone now—
Once again, fighting the long
wait until dawn.
Out of drink…
Out of smokes…
Out of luck.
Losing the fight thus far.
editors note: “All good things come to those who wait!” say those who got what they waited for. – mh clay
Hiding out in the mid-night blue.
Old school cool jazz blowing hot.
Felines present purr their own songs,
in the smoke-filled room.
Peanut-butter and honey sandwiches;
more coffee and smokes.
Fingers on the keys, unconscious dictation.
The wind rustling through the chimes
outside sends a momentary chill to the blood.
The machine takes another call;
don’t feel like talking right now…as usual.
Let nothing intrude but the senses.
Hiding out again…and always.
Bless this perfect isolation.
editors note: When “unconscious dictation” comes best; when it’s only you, yourself and… – mh clay
