“I went up those stairs at my next door neighbor’s party after midnight on New Year’s night to fetch our winter coats. I turned on the light and all the coats were on the floor and Gail was naked under the blankets making it with my next-door neighbor, this guy that ran a bunch of tanning salons. I flicked the …
When I climb out of the KIA I notice an old man standing by his suburban. I look to where he’s staring and see a woman behind her covered pickup. The tailgate is down and she is moving metal cages around that hold small dogs. I think she must be a rescuer. The woman must bend over to do this …
Her body, any body, you tell yourself,
Never as good as words, never as nuanced
As the sounds arising off the skin of page
And your finger tracing the text,
Much better than the tip of your
Tongue across the ridges of her
Soft flowered ears
Yes, text rolls much superior to
Her hand massaging your foot’s insole,
Much better than your nose drifting through
Her long and sumptuous hair
You know the feel of her spine
No way competes with the flexing
Spine of a book
There are no sounds to her lovely lashes,
No off rhymes off the blue of her eyes
There are never tears, never the constant why whys
When you turn on the light in bed with a book
But stop now and demand of yourself that
You put aside your fears, your rationalizing.
You know how the pain of her makes you say
Unending garbage of stupid things
You know in the deep of all your aches
That no printed book has ever
Moved and sighed like the liquefaction
Of her sweet and shining words
Erotica as reading as erotica. – mh clay
Here we are wet and moldy in a trench.
Here we are in World War One.
Here we are in France.
You can be a German if you want.
I’ll be British or maybe French.
We are warring brothers of the trenches
We smell of rotting corpses all around.
We are both wet and muddy,
Stumbling to fit our gas masks on our faces.
Somebody’s sent our way the mustard gas.
We don’t know if it’s from them or us.
The winds are variable that way.
There weren’t supposed to be but here we are gasping.
The machine guns have stopped spitting death.
The air’s the color of mustard
And everything’s still and quiet.
You feel in another world
And you almost relish the moment.
You don’t expect to survive this shithole war.
You want to ask one of your buddies
In the trench to kick you in the ass
For allowing your stupid self to get in such a pickle.
We were all such dum-dum bullets.
If you’d become a chemist instead
You might have invented a ketchup gas
That could nullify the mustard gas.
You’d relish the idea that all the poison
Gasses could be named for garnishes
As hurricanes were named for women.
I’d make a mayonnaise gas that melts
A soldier’s skin into a pasty white.
A peanut butter gas that when it clogs
Inside the body causes a slow death
In the shape of a peanut shell.
A butter gas that makes you dream,
Before you die, of a better world,
Smooth and creamy. Both you and I
Will float above our trenches in the
Butter gas beyond at last all the farce
Of nationalism, away from racist
And homophobic cracks, to embrace
As only human lovers are able,
Dreaming to a transcendent space.
Seeking the ultimate condiment of compassion. Please! – mh clay
We kidnapped the barber with the stiff neck. I was against the plan but had only one vote. The rest of the guys were in awe of our friend from Princeton. He had a lot of family money in our small suburb. We called him Coney because his head seemed cone headed. His red hair and crew cut accentuated the …
It was the late seventies and I’d never known any woman like Marie, who would cover one whole wall of her room with naked men centerfolds taken from Playgirl Magazine. Marie had graduated from the university in Cedar Park and was now in a medical program at Galveston’s Sealy Medical Center to become a medical photographer. “You’ve got some interesting …
Hello, everybody! Great to see you. I guess you can tell by looking that I am a geezer, a crank, a codger, an old fart – as well as a wizened wise man in an age that can’t tell wisdom from information. After making that profound remark, I’m going in another direction. I know what information is but don’t have …
Jesus, would you look at that idiot,
really, take a look at that sucker,
roll the window down nice and easy,
stick your head out and get a good look,
Jesus, pulls up right behind us,
a millimeter from the back bumper,
it’s fucking two in the morning, we’re
on a down slope at the light, he’s in
one of those ungodly four-wheel drive
minivans or some such shit, and he’s
got the high beams on, he’s laser
lighting us, the movie projector beam
slashes through the back window,
ricochets off the rear view mirror
and cuts into our eyes, the whole
car’s lighted up like some alien
spaceship is hovering above us,
more light than inside the newest
convenience store at the corner
of Mount Parnassas and Homer
Avenue, more light than your Father
puts out from his high holy throne,
Jesus, what is your world coming to,
they don’t care, they high beam
you everywhere, going down the
neighborhood streets, going down
the two lane blacktops, Jesus, it’s
not that they are mad, it’s not that
they are trying to do you in because
they got a grudge against the way
your Father made things, it’s just
that they fucking don’t acknowledge
a place for what’s beyond their own
special selves, Jesus, high beaming
you, everyone, always, the fuckers,
here and universal everywhere
These days, even at night, you gotta wear shades. – mh clay
I saw Jadene, my neighbor across the street, take a sledgehammer to her small brick house. She was working on the east side, smacking the red bricks cemented in a row right above the cement pad, cracking bricks and then removing chunks with a small crow bar. I don’t know how long Jadene had been at the task. When I …
Here’s John, honestly in himself,
Wanting his cock in cunt,
Not caring beyond beauty,
The bodies divine, wanting
To stay and walk away
And here’s Mary, unsure too,
Wanting it too, in love
With beauty but fearing
It’s name, calling it “cute,”
Thinking John’s might be
The one for babies,
And they want it
Both soft and hard
Fire quick and molasses slow.
You know how it goes
The Humorous, the intense
The Light, the dark
Forever and a day
Both Liberty and security
The whole swinging ecstasy
And all the while
Here comes the beginning
Of the always saying
You’re the one who’s
Got it all wrong,
And soon they turn
burned with anger,
Righteous as anyone’s God
“Try to learn respect,
I’m not a piece of meat!”
Just a game, which everyone plays for keeps. – mh clay
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