Featured Poems

White Meat

by on November 23, 2017 :: 0 comments

Give thanks enemies don’t throw the best feasts.
Green bean butter knives spread pre-prayer rolls passed from
our honored guest prophet priest president with a mouth for
cranberries oozing from tin cans like sick cow tongues
still wasting lives building memories uninvited to Thanksgiving.

He listens, our prophet priest president, with dichroic interest.
Vietnam Dad didn’t collect bodies, only stories repeating
from when wide open Austin carried tower bullets to forever,
but not to Vietnam where Dad was first called a racist.
“I’m Irish,
nothing but bad potatoes, finger splinters, nothing to look at
but when I do look into a mirror, at least I don’t see
a nigger.”

Our prophet priest president asks to give thanks.

Give thanks slow animals don’t think quickly.
Give thanks all time is a food pyramid.
Give thanks it’s not sugar but it’s sweet.
Give thanks stuffing crawls inside by design.
Give thanks our skeletons always fit in last season’s coat.
Give thanks! Change the world or change the channel!

Give thanks you’ll get a eulogy and hear even more.
Give thanks your shoes have a goddess’s name, your soul’s saved.
Give thanks you can spell CRUCIFIX but never need one.
Give thanks you don’t know the black hole of a gun barrel.
Give thanks you don’t know why the black hole on your heart

gives thanks.

Give thanks we’re not dead, we only slouch that way.
Give thanks we don’t hate, we only talk that way.

Winds ring trees Irish roughhewed into pews for natives
out of mountains, hungry for Irish daughters and their saving god,
potatoes that never see a damn thing, especially not disease,
prophet priest president
who all the whites know and love as much as whites can—
with respect.
Corncobs don’t hear whispered new words, new languages
as honey licked off broken fingers dirtied by church bombings
and suppertime phone screens cataloging absurd scriptures.
One’s eyes see all, warm bodies under bridges, cold corpses on asphalt,
anthologies of new wars for new decades in new billion-year-old light.
Loud prayers of suppers, silence in streets, entertainment for a prophet

Championed our best but bled of goodness from wrists dripping
to the ground where America was made, where spit dark clay made men
draw lines in backs kept from our front door while
behind locked windows and open mouths sits a country that doesn’t exist
but it’s been built by hand by generations by blessing
at the devil’s right hand, so grab your loved one to your left for grace.

Catch for us the foxes, the little foxes that ruin vineyards in bloom.
Feed for the wolves are starved and our mouths are empty.

We’re served
what animals become when they don’t run, we’re what happens when they sit
with an invited prophet priest president who loves that we don’t hold light,
the phantom touch of what we should be
never returns
as canned cranberries spill out in the shape they were contained.

editors note:

Oh, the thanks we could thank until, like stuffed turkeys, we’re thanked full. Let’s shirk the shameful and thank again! – mh clay

Juggling Oranges

by on November 22, 2017 :: 0 comments

Watch, Anita! The cloud’s blotted,
(The one that looks like Larry Fine), the
Sky’s sliced (or do I mean
The skies?!),
Blurred, it’s
An edible parabola!
Pale hot blue &
Pale blue ice
Carved into the air
By my orange thunk! & thwup!
Every impact spreads
The citrus ripple
To another dozen
Dilated nostrils!
I own every nostril between here
& Tompkins Square, Anita
(& most of the eyes)!

The pebbled skins pink
At Manhattanhenge
& we retrieve

Our glasses from the freezer,
My juicer from the sink,
Your t-shirt from the shower head

& sip until the sky

editors note:

Citric assignations in the big city – fresh-squeezed! – mh clay


by on November 21, 2017 :: 0 comments

Quarantine by quality is enough confinement.
Let us not add the angle of moral amplitude.
Woodsmoke of ceremonies fails to enter my
porch, connections fasten without formalities.

Tristfulness arrives with certain defiance as
though proving a point. I spurn its summon.
Like the gnomon, I light my mind’s wick to
usher me away from the lightlessness.

editors note:

Don’t need another’s compass to keep us in the light. We make our own choices. – mh clay

Every Woman I’ve Ever Loved

by on November 20, 2017 :: 0 comments

The sun and the moon were her eyes
The bright stars were every smile she gave
She was the depth of darkness in between
and her voice echoed before she spoke

Our dreams rhymed and we visited from time to time
it was always a surprise and it was always sublime
The sun and the moon were her eyes
Under her gaze I could burn and I could glide

She was a bird in my arms and when she sang
I listened but could not understand
She wept the darkness of night
so a stone cast into the sky would be swallowed by her tears

The sun and the moon were her eyes
and they were exactly distant from mine
In her smile every bright star glowed
and flowers grew in her laughter

She bit like an avalanche when I walked the road from her heart
The sun and the moon collided and the stars were washed black
The depth of night became thin as her taught lips
When she spoke the words I knew before she spoke

The sun and the moon were her eyes

– Lot Grundy

editors note:

Forlorn lover, seeking light; tossed by tandem eclipses into lonely night.  – mh clay

Migratory text

by on November 19, 2017 :: 0 comments

Ritual journey, known trip
unknown. Tunnel behind,

vaginal, dim. Locked
in memory, blissful ride

amid anemone, cosmos,
buttercup, rose. Lover

now silent, breathing low,
thumbs busy on her phone.

editors note:

Oh, the pain; she’s about to swipe left. – mh clay


by on November 18, 2017 :: 0 comments

you must be humble
inside the flame

breath deep
make love
tumble to ash

and let the tears
find their own way

– Josh Weir

editors note:

Lest we forget… – mh clay

The night Mother Stepped into Space

by on November 17, 2017 :: 0 comments

Def: of height, depth, and width within which all things exist and move

Wild dreams
Rocket ships
with missing seatbelts
soaked sheets
astral projections
shed her
of her
middle aged
carriage ride

mother dreams of this
his hands
picking strings
around her fairytale face

cheese wheel moon
takes her soon
sailing on star trail tail of
behind the sun
tin foil suit crackling away
from celestial maid
and she slides
between Styrofoam
in invisible arms
opens her mouth
and swallows
the milky way black soup of asteroids
mother laughs
her toes tickled trans Neptunian
night gown sizzling away

mother dreams of this
Star Trek sonar ping
The darkness of dark
Saturn is a turntable
And the tune
Is all right
In flight
At her feet
Tiny earth shrinks
Through the straw
Of her view
Her Ephemeris

editors note:

A sad blastoff for us behind, a new frontier for them. Yes! – mh clay