Down On Front Street

featured in the poetry forum October 21, 2017  :: 0 comments

This is a foggy step
An amber goo between the prints
The more there is the better chance I have of it fossilizing
I hope you get the metaphor
My paranoia limiting my patience
My paranoia
My paranoia
My paranoia
It seems that’s all there is anymore
I fight so hard to be free
Down on Front street
Just to cage myself in my cave like notions
I wonder if I could ever love again
Or if I’ve ever loved before
Perhaps all I felt was a
narcissistic sense of
ownership and betrayal
Caveman emotions trying to speak modern language
And I’m trying to get rich off of Bitcoin
I had a client say “what’s the point in investing?
We’ll all be dead soon anyways.”
I check my pulse
I pat my gun
And I think in response
“Not me motherfucker, not me.”

editors note:

Not me, either! Uh, wait… where’s my gun? – mh clay

Letter to my Therapist

featured in the poetry forum May 23, 2017  :: 0 comments

Dear Fiona,
My dear therapist
I am sorry
I am sorry for ghost white lies
I say
You labeled me
PTSD or ptsd or PeeTee Es Dee
And blah blah blah
It doesn’t matter, to me
And I told you the flies-in-my-gut truth
The things I don’t remember
That you somehow coaxed me into reliving
I’m still unsure what all I told you that day
It was most certain a unique kind of hell
One I’m sure you have never endured
And now
I notice
your knuckles curl
when I enter your room
How the seat is two feet farther back
I see you tremble, Fiona
And I never knew scars could cut
But I see you bleed
When we pick my scab
I’m sorry Fiona
But I think it’s too late
And this
my friend
Is just a ghost white lie

editors note:

Shared hell, shared fear. No distance can keep so close. – mh clay

Woolly Mammoths

featured in the poetry forum February 28, 2017  :: 0 comments

Way past constipation and injection marks
We plundered
Ice cold eyes on the hunt for an ice aged myth
Woolly mammoth they called it
But we didn’t care
They could’ve called it certain death
And we would buy all we could and came back for more
Better than sex the addicts say
I don’t know about that
But it was pretty damn close and a whole hell of a lot cheaper
So we chilled
At some slum dog dirt floor section 8 housing in South Detroit
“The hood” we called it before we realized it lived and breathed
It was a white boy adventure
Like a life and death roller-coaster ride
With needles and whores and police chases
And when we were done we rode the two hours back south and passed out without even locking our cars
But there were a few who wanted to ride too often
And they died with needles in their arms
Their mommas crying at the slack jaw lifeless body of their boy that just fed “the hood” and got spit out in his parents
And we soon discovered this wasn’t a ride at all
But a hunting field
With decoy woolly mammoths

editors note:

Obsessed after ecstasy. Edged toward extinction, instead. (We welcome Adam to our crazed conclave of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out). – mh clay

Home Is Where Death Is

featured in the poetry forum October 7, 2016  :: 0 comments

One dirty shirt away from extinction
They told me evolution was make believe
“Evil-ution” They would say
We got trenches dug in around our thoughts
And no one sees that the world revolves around sex
Or they pretend that it doesn’t
Because they pretend that they are happy sitting at their desk
Only doing what they want on Saturday and Sunday
Posting a Monday sucks meme
Dying on the inside
And the ones that can’t take it
kill themselves
Or die doing what they love
And there are less and less of these heroes
We are breeding pussies and cry babies
And people who take Tylenol for the pain
And stop running when their legs cramp up
And die when they are still living

editors note:

Why not wait until death to die? – mh clay

Teenagers in Rural Ohio

featured in the poetry forum June 20, 2016  :: 0 comments

There were a few of us
Underage and drinking beers
You know what I’m talking about
Just boys being boys
And about nine beers deep we started getting bored

There was this gopher hole
And boys being boys we started a fire
in the hole

Next we threw in firecrackers
Still nothing
I’m not sure what we expected
I guess we were just hoping to flush the rodent out

This stupid pastime continued
Until my uncle
Drunk as shit stumbled over with the water hose

He pushed the hose into the hole and turned on the water
It all happened so fast
The critter came dashing out
And in that instance my uncle
Armed with a baseball bat
Beat the gopher to death

He threw down the bat and walked away
We were confused
I felt dirty
How did pointless fun
Easily turn into a murder of sorts

We buried the gopher
And never talked about it again
Until now
Until Trump decided to run for president

One of the boys that were there called me
I told him I wasn’t much into politics
He said
“Remember the gopher?”

editors note:

Commentary heard on your local news channel never! – mh clay