Featured Poems

when mind rests…

by on December 12, 2018 :: 0 comments

what peaceful sea shore;
flat waters pay triple tours,
and the land says more…

– Olude Peter Sunday

editors note: The best environmental policy? Shut up and listen! – mh clay

On Earth as It Is in Heaven

by on December 11, 2018 :: 0 comments

Sometimes the right words to say no longer exist

let the wound bleed out
it is only of the flesh

no sugarcoating left in your voice
or deeds

Sometimes the most sincere prayers simply don’t work

Sometimes the kiss of death comes served with a smile

but mostly we just carry salt
and regret

editors note: The Drs say to go salt-free, keep the pressure low. Know it alls; easy to say… – mh clay

You know what it means

by on December 10, 2018 :: 0 comments

Piece of mind. Metal mind. Heavy metal mind. Try as I might. I cannot you. You cannot me. Death star. Unrelenting. Tree of being. Tree of bubbles in the water. Trace. Trace your hand. Understand. You cannot be real. You are unreal. You are a meal for a godlike being. Oh can’t you see. You’re a lot stronger than me. And I get along, albeit. Albeit. Better feel your digit. Spittle on your digit. On a weird sad evening. Cancer sticks. Your spit. The house quiet and alone and vast like the ocean floor. Beyond read. Beyond mouth. Beyond stick insect. Be nice. Be nice. Be nice to the pariahs. You are them, somewhere. Your hair, your eyes, your mouth, your read, your see, your love, your bothered mucousy drum. Dot. Forward Slash. The onion. Brutal. Objective. No one home. Undead. Wandering in a snow globe. You can’t believe. You want to believe. You want to communicate. But you can’t. Haha, you can’t. Haha, you can’t. Haha, you can’t. You are endless. You tear up pictures of God in your room. Wasting. Being stupid. Adoring. Muscles. Breasts. Redeeming. Spudlike. A dud. Poison in your brain. Rasputin in your eyes and ears. King over pages of forced writing. Goodness. Gracious. Look at the day, try to make out the hieroglyphs. Pleasant dreams. Jar of rainbows. Kicking the kickball. Monster. You. Unloaded. Unwanted. Busy bee. Cowering sleeplessly. Canyon of windows. You know you know you know you know you know you know you know you know you know what it means.

– Harry McNabb

editors note: Oh, how much pain will we gain because we do? – mh clay

Chores / What is a perfect line?

by on December 9, 2018 :: 0 comments

It’s not about the pace
Nor about this race, or how one must slowly learn to earn some disgrace;
Why one chooses to do the dishes first
Or, for that matter loves sweeping the floor.
But the onions must be cut, the garlic peeled,
Washed one by one, left alone to dry.

You can move slow, you can be fast
Change your pace, slow-burn
The oil or speed heat the water
Bay leaf, salt, turmeric, cumin seeds. Sugar?
The choice is ours

Not to hold onto a set instruction
As long as the taste works.

editors note: The proof is in the pudding (if you like pudding). – mh clay


by on December 8, 2018 :: 0 comments

Just in case
bury me in a dancing dress.

editors note: Love this – agnostic optimism. (Read another optimistic missive on Beate’s page – check it out.) – mh clay


by on December 7, 2018 :: 0 comments

Leave it to the news to tell me that the drugs don’t work.
Just after I’ve consumed a dozen of them,
and have warned my pain of what lies in store for it.

The Food and Drug Administration says that I’ve been misinformed.
And while I’m at it, no shampoo in all of Christendom will save my hair.

The FDA has just begun to prick all my balloons.
They inform me that a man can’t resurrect old love just by listening to a song.
And when I look deep into a painting, I’m not in touch with some artist’s soul.
It’s all just paint. Lick it and you die.

The FDA adds that its chemists have spent years attempting to validate
the meaning in my life
but the results so far have all proved negative.

In fact, they’re closing the book on this one.
They recommend drugs. Then they tell me the drugs don’t work.

editors note: No more cred in the catch-phrase, Better Living Through Chemistry. – mh clay

At the Drinkery

by on December 6, 2018 :: 0 comments

Predictability of patterns cry for yawings
of earlier phases. Comfort of certitudes
are like broken down loves or authors and
auteurs who once stirred our sally but fail
to quicken. Colors of my canvas aren’t of
my making. Rigidity is an enterprise of the
spirit. Hierarchies aid and aggrieve. Moon-
shine dulls sensory aches. Lips widen when
liquor soaks the esophagus. I’m an argument
against myself.

editors note: The inevitable skewing of self-pasts depicted by other painters, as tears in our beer. Or, regrets, straight up with a twist. – mh clay