featured in the poetry forum January 20, 2020  :: 0 comments

Fire at night! Fire
in the coal dark cold
of an ice like desire
that chokes the eyes
like wicked smoke
under shrouded skies
and bilious smog

…and a breathy toke
on a deadly drug
which sells the soul
which howls like a dog
in lightning storms
against thunder sounds
whose big guns bellow a hundred rounds
on our crumbling station
our crumbling forms
our tired nation
our hell-bent choir.

Fire at night….such wicked fire!

editors note:

Public works or public outrage? What’s happening in your city? – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum November 4, 2019  :: 0 comments

The manifest of my dreams
in spring
is written cool, bland,
lyrically lazy
about the green shrubbery
and the yellow brown roses
come ugly upon a trailer park Easter

…a bit of leafy stem
sticks its head above
the loam

and this is our Jesus!, our poetry!

editors note:

Jesus in every flower. Resurrection in every Spring. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum August 28, 2019  :: 0 comments

…but much like snow!,
so cool white in their bouquet
which thieves
and angels

within that vision
of my look
gone skyward
while I recline

…in the side seat of our Buick
after finishing
my wine!

editors note:

All is white through rosé colored classes. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum June 8, 2019  :: 0 comments

Breathing hard
love was unearthed
by her yard and its sweaty labor
and then layers of paint
built a textured vision
balanced but blooming
with such wild and beautiful weeds!

And compared to her art
my poems were lame
privately constructed
voyeuristic fissures
of a slow death’s unraveling

….compared as well
to those great poems of the centuries
which I read these days on my kindle
by lamplight.

And yet
compared to her art
…but nothing can compare
to such passion alive

…and this
is the joy
of my throat and my breath
and my life.

editors note:

Still breathing… might as well write. – mh clay

habits of the flesh

featured in the poetry forum March 30, 2019  :: 0 comments

When a bum gets old and sick
his teeth decay,
he passes wind
and wind comes back all heartless cold

…he feeds his cold with laudanum
…the charity dentist clears his mouth
of uppers, lowers, north and south

in freezing winter clinics
where winter says “not snow…just rain”

oh let me suck the ripple down
and smoke a dozen cigarettes at once
…and sleep near the bridge…this frozen town.

Oh let me die …a dog! a dunce!
Oh let us lie down
but feel no pain!

editors note:

Who’s the bum, when we wish the same? Please, no pain, no pain. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum January 17, 2019  :: 0 comments

Parched to a silence like giggling gibberish
…craving ice cold liquids
…sorry cigarettes that forget all dreams
…I was the last in line
for a mayhem which never graced my bones.
They rattle now and squeeze dry blood
…ignoring the fact outside!…the flood!

editors note:

Apocalypses pale in comparison to individual addictions. Get in line! – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum November 7, 2018  :: 0 comments

Recurring headaches
from caffeine highs
nicotine cravings

in the smoky speeding crown
of evening’s crowded malls

and the big summer sun
and the ice blue pools
whose women strip
to a cloth up their ass cracks

and chat over rum
and Caribbean limes

…this is where the salt went!
…toward the heat of dissipation
and air cooled condos
way too cold

…and a few like me
grow old…

editors note: You can mind your salt, but that calendar creeps all the same. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum August 30, 2018  :: 0 comments

Please dear nodding muse
forever washed by June storm
…then, a rag, dried out!

come, give me a word!
…a jazz chord!, a caw of crow
singing in the South!

Forgiven, these riffs!
…stupefied in summer heat
and made pure by Sun!

editors note:

Transubstantiation for a summer situation. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum June 30, 2018  :: 0 comments

March’s promise made of Monday…wine and crust.
A piglet ploughs the fields of doughy money
…the bum beholds his pocket vacant, empty.
The Lord looks down and laughs
…the Devil laughs as well
…at all of the sins of pride
whose truth is turned to vegetable and dust
while spirit things have lied
themselves to Hell.

The vagrant is at sea without an oar.
The piglet has to pee
and pisses honey
…five cups of piss at four a cup means twenty
shekels for the piglet’s wife and whore.

Those who rule, are cheated then, by death
and those without by loveless life and breath.
These coins mount up in treasures or in debt
…either way, the women sit and weep
for loss and loss, both light and heavy like a cross
…death’s blackness is the piglet’s only fear
though cool and dark in April… like a tear!

editors note:

We each hope this is observation, not reflection. “You can see them out for dinner…” – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum May 12, 2018  :: 0 comments

Our eyes rot themselves
…no vision lingers with us!
Fall burns leaves to smoke.

Football is our God!
…a religion of such things!
…war is like a game.

We fail to budge in life
…soon the storm will come to us!
Winter on TV.

editors note:

Best stock up and settle in; the ultimate in spectator sport approaches… – mh clay