AUBADE

featured in the poetry forum November 24, 2016  :: 1 comment

Do I love you more
than dew in the
dawn sparkles?
Do webs irised
in the garden
twinkle less
than the smile I
catch in your
eye?

Yes and yes.
For our love
forever lives
in this breeze
so soon
in the heat of day
to still.

editors note:

Sweet morning’s muse. Love for thanks and thanks for love. – mh clay

STREET LIFE

featured in the poetry forum September 10, 2015  :: 0 comments

Crows pick at the rat
teenage dragsters last night
to the asphalt flattened.
Noisemakers breakfasting
on one less kitchen threat.
The bigger get the guts.
The smaller rip through fur.
A runt wrestles with the tail.
Only at the last moment,
when my foot falls less than a foot
from their feathers, do they scatter,
flapping to the curb on either side.

Continuing, after crossing, on the way
to the bus, the office, the cubicle,
at my back I hear, clockwork like,
them rejoin the feast,
pecking, snapping, tearing;
gargling at a fellow to hop back
from the gargler’s beak
in the gargler’s meat.
Rat bowel stink
through the rest of the
day’s restless turns
twists,

assuring me those Crows
who own the Maze
will likewise clean me –
at the end of the day –
sudden, senseless or otherwise
– up.

editors note:

It appears that only crows win the rat race. – mh clay

FIRE STYX

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

I rub together words
to get her to come.
First the smoke, then the ember.
Finally a flame remembers her name,
but refuses to tell,
till I spit on the light,
and out it hisses.
Anxious to grope ankles
to swing her inside the cave
to pull through my dream her hair,
rub together words
to get her
together with me to come.
Eager to flee my itch
I scratch but to
ratchet the itch up.

But will never come to scratch
the act of rubbing words together
to get her to come.

editors note:

Fire by friction and poet’s fiction; both an itch we gotta scratch. – mh

CANNIBAL SUICIDE

featured in the poetry forum May 17, 2013  :: 0 comments

I poured a finger of scotch into a coffee cup
and ate the cup and licked up the spilled scotch
and ate the mouth of the fifth down to the neck and
was wolfing the table leg, when
mother came in to iron some bugs out
of her pocket calculator
and couldn’t help but notice the ruined fifth,
the cup nowhere and the table wobbly
on three legs. She threatened to knuckle down
and hand it to me,
but I trumped her rump,
tugged the table leg out of my throat
and clubbed her to death. Blood spattered
the venetian blinds and mother slumped
to the foot of the refrigerator.

I threw up a window and sat on a foot stool and
reswallowed the table leg
and munched on the arm of a chair
till I was stuffed, then jerked down the wallphone
and ate out the mouthpiece
and considered sucking the news off the tv,
but decided instead to put the mouth
of a firearm to my temple
and pray.

editors note:

Sounds more like salvation for this confused carnivore. Crikey! – mh

GLASS HARMONICA

featured in the poetry forum March 19, 2012  :: 0 comments

I poured a finger of scotch into a coffee cup
and ate the cup and licked up the spilled scotch
and ate the mouth of the fifth down to the neck and
was wolfing the table leg, when
mother came in to iron some bugs out
of her pocket calculator
and couldn’t help but notice the ruined fifth,
the cup nowhere and the table wobbly
on three legs. She threatened to knuckle down
and hand it to me,
but I trumped her rump,
tugged the table leg out of my throat
and clubbed her to death. Blood spattered
the venetian blinds and mother slumped
to the foot of the refrigerator.

I threw up a window and sat on a foot stool and
reswallowed the table leg
and munched on the arm of a chair
till I was stuffed, then jerked down the wallphone
and ate out the mouthpiece
and considered sucking the news off the tv,
but decided instead to put the mouth
of a firearm to my temple
and pray.

editors note:

Death can be beat! Keep that harmonica humming, don’t throw stones. – mh

PRAYER AT THE OPENING

featured in the poetry forum July 7, 2011  :: 0 comments

Flies swarm the opening to the crawl space. Inside, across the dirt, all dead, save myself, we sprawl. Maggots, wriggling their black magic, blanket the greediest eaters, the bloated kingpins who first hemorrhaged.

I, the runt, ate last. Am the longest to last. The meek shall inherit the valediction.

To die like this in the midst of rich new food…

Blood leaks internally. I retch, knowing a thirst no water on earth can slake…

Did we make too much noise? Too many babies? Neglect to hail the luck that brought us to this heaven turned holocaust?

If (as I suspect) the last: For this twist, on the altar of our drought, let rodent awe ooze.

Flies swarm the opening.

STEELING MYSELF

featured in the poetry forum May 18, 2011  :: 0 comments

Eye stove, sink, fridge, counter, trash. Pull down the board to iron a shirt for tomorrow. Think – ironing the yoke – of iron enriching the blood, iron at the earth’s core, the irony of steeling myself for the office.

Linen steam calms the nose. Smoothing wrinkles soothe the eye. Thunk and glide of iron lull.

Wince at stud pierced tongue.

Think of the – creasing sleeves, smartening cuffs – office as a cathedral of icy digits, jargon-blizzards, techno-blitzes, hoary acronyms that freezerburn the mind not to mind redundant hells of worsening change for the better.

Tug at tongue frosted to altar. Concentrate on – to sidestep daymares – perfecting tails. Flatten facing between buttons.

Finished, spring board back into cabinet between fridge and stove. Prop iron upright on counter. Don clean fragrant Arrow. Button up. Tuck in.

Step through door beside trash into garage. Start Civic. Amble around behind. Kneel between trunk and wall displaying rakes, shovels, shears, other garden implements of torture.

Drape quilt over head. Press mouth to exhaust. Hyperventilate.

The iron in the blood bonds to monoxide. I fall – with a slight headache – asleep against the pipe. Find in a fist the key to the gate through which to throw myself at the claws of the iron throne. Ironed shirt warm still from smoothing the irony of new and improved.

COP SHOW

February 1, 2009  :: 0 comments

I’m a cop. Go in to cop a donut, coffee; sit by the window; take in the scene. Myself – can’t help be seen. Not so much a bull as a bull’s-eye.

Oh, not all bad. Leastwise I’m a target can shoot back. Not to mention, should it come to that – take a sip – purse lips – initiate fire.

Clown stumbles in with bulges. Carbuncular adam’s-apple. Medium boob. Mystic look of sex beyond the grave. Strides up to the counter all tic and attitude.

It’s OK. Routine transbender – guy/gal schizo between pills. Nasty odor. Knife eyes. Atrocity city tattooed on knuckles. Venomous, yes – but not the type kills.

Joker spits at the barrista. Hisses like a joint of spitted pork. Launches a gamut of language that cuts and stings. In process of which vituperation the counter kid catches a goober green in the eye.

I start to shake. Stuff into mouth a bear claw; to keep from busting out laughing. Craziest show in town – not only rockbottom free, but I’m into the bargain on the payroll!

Customer grabs out of his crotch what actually does prove to be a weapon. Guess after all no guy/gal. Instead some new breed of unknown fucking idiot.

Looks like a .22. Girly popgun. Semen crusted, urine stained, sweat rusted. Even if loaded likely misfire.

The kid waxes a whiter shade. Can’t be a minute over nineteen; graduated last month from barrista college – six-week course toothpasted him out of course unprepared for rotten teeth screaming obscenities, plus a muzzle nuzzling his nipple.

This is where the barrista cuts or not the mustard.

Scoot back in plastic chair. Carefully swallow masticated bear claw. This where the show trangresses funny; verges on real.

Kid heaves hands up. Reaches for the sky; more like for the honeycomb fluorescent fixture hung off the popcorn ceiling.

He’s backing toward the espresso machine. Finally shrieks, “Take the money. Please – I ain’t seen nothin’!”

The boomer gets stuck in a loop. “Cocksucker! Suck, cocksucker! Suck cock, cocksucker!” Head begins to bob in time to C-word detonation – thumb cocking hammer, grimey forefinger on trigger whitening.

Gulp java to hide hilarity. Damn near choke. Eyes squint shut. Pretend I’m nowhere to facilitate tricky shit with the pipes – coffee down, giggles out the nose, while simultaneous air in.

A gun – likely the gun – barks. God, sometimes it’s a bitch to be a cop!

Slam open eyes. Cough into fist. Look up fast as can – quick as beans out of a can…

The kid seems OK. Except the kook – lunged across the counter – has crammed stump down kid’s throat. Looks like gun exploded, blew off hand. Smoke leaks from barrista’s mouth around bloody wrist.

Wrestle phone off hip. Order up a medevac, trauma team, recommend MHP on top. Got one nut, detached carpus, needs attention at scene.

Scrutinize – hooking cell back onto hip – kook: scrawny, tall, bald, bearded. His/her heroin history. Late fifties – fullblown second Saturn Return.

I’m planet hip. Cop to astrology. The stars are my beat. Hole up periodically in corporate donut holes. Devour horoscopes abandoned on tables. Legend in my own mind dubs me Officer Nostrodamus.

We all got a myth. My name is Smythe – silent E, Y like I, hissy S. Same as the joe works hard, beats all day iron against iron.

Kid starts to choke. He’s stopping arterial bleeding – stump wedged against pharynx; blasted ulnar throb feeding gag back; on some level torn between improvised tourniquet saving a life and his own personal gasp. At nineteen one so often ripped between Christ and a thief.

The kook, on the other hand (Mercury retrograde in the pun house), can’t seem to care, C word again exploding out of his goiter, Viet vet with wannabe stings.

And I’m laughing my buns off – this all such a scream; morphed into a dream, as the morphine the monkeys hit me up with hits and the stump tumbles out of my maw. Another day, another holler at another exit botched.

Einstein was the heaviest mass murderer of the Twentieth Century. Proved Hiroshima could with a toggle be annihilated; he Jewish peacenik as they come; as the Prince of Peace himself – although some say, on the Q. T., J. C. was in fact a guy/gal.

What a show! And remember kids, and babyboomers, too: the best you can do is act your part. Even if that means many parts all at once falling apart. Suck cock, cocksucker suck!

HOW THE COPS FIXED MY ASS

February 1, 2009  :: 0 comments

I was bung outta dung.
I was bunged in.
I didn’t know where to crap I was
gonna get any more dung.
I checked inside my wallet and
nope, not a turd, not so much
as a drop of piss.
I was bung outta dung,
I was bunged in.

I knew there was a lotta dung downtown.
I could smell it. All that dung rolled inside
paper assholes, crammed inside cash registers,
bung up in the banks,
bunged sky high to the lid of the First National Bank Tower.
I tried bunging my way onto a bus,
but nope, no soap,
the driver slammed the door in my nose
because I didn’t have so much as a drop of piss.

So I hitchhiked and it rained
and I got downtown a little later than I had hoped,
but Lord! the stench of dung was overpowering!
Bunged-out winos crumpled to the sidewalk
like men made of turd. Businessmen shiny as piss
walked by and
grinned at themselves in shop windows across the street.
I was sickened… there was nothing else to do:

I entered a bank and shot the teller and stuffed my jeans
with clean green dung.
Easy as pie. One, two, three. I
ran out filthy with dung, and almost made it
to the new car I was about to buy,
when Bung! Bung! Bung!
the cops shot my ass off.

MEDIA BLITZ

February 1, 2009  :: 0 comments

I was bung outta dung.
I was bunged in.
I didn’t know where to crap I was
gonna get any more dung.
I checked inside my wallet and
nope, not a turd, not so much
as a drop of piss.
I was bung outta dung,
I was bunged in.

I entered a bank and shot the teller and stuffed my jeans
with clean green dung.
Easy as pie. One, two, three. I
ran out filthy with dung, and almost made it
to the new car I was about to buy,
when Bung! Bung! Bung!
the cops shot my ass off.