December 15, 2018  :: 0 comments

Hooker spit in my Listerine,
Magic fingers of the professional
We found each other on Bourbon Street,
Got together for a little party
In a rented room around the corner from the old selling block.
The ghosts blinded Satan
Tabasco sauce pooled in eye sockets.
Jesus drunk with Buddha in the alley
Behind the bar smoking a spliff.
God is with his harem.
Oh friends, Feast!
Eating chilled Jim Morrison brain
As an appetizer.
It’s just all a flamingo lobotomy.
Just a flamingo lobotomy.

Mad Wet Elves

featured in the poetry forum December 22, 2017  :: 0 comments

The unhappiness of sleep paralysis thoughts,
Straitjacket of seaweed and jellyfish tentacles,
A sea hag, heavy as an anchor, rusting on insomniac breath.
Stronger than sleeping pills, trying all the sweat wet pillows again,
What lie will we tell the children
When Santa’s Workshop falls through the thin ice at the North Pole?

Will History label us Stupid or Mean?

What lie will we tell the children
When Santa’s Workshop comes to rest on the Arctic seafloor?

Santa Claus entombed. Mrs. Claus in Tucson sobbing.
His mad wet elves coming ashore
On the backs of the last polar bears.

The Mont Blanc glacier in reverse has no brakes.
The hotel bar is now on the rocks.
The fighting Poets shout at each other with broken noses,
Blacked eyes, bloodied knuckles, spitting loose teeth at each other

editors note:

Another holiday donnybrook; this time between poets for the right to lie and to write the lie rightly. No “L”. – mh clay

New Mexico

featured in the poetry forum August 5, 2017  :: 0 comments

I am old crow
Scalpel beak a sonorous horn
My star spangled smile
Seems smooth
On the atomic level
I am jagged as the crest
As the sun comes over the mountain
I stand astride the continental divide
Tears flowing from one eye going to the Pacific Ocean
Tears flowing from the other going to the Atlantic Ocean
Here I stand on this obsidian razor blade
This edge moment time
The dawn line comes
Cartwheels across me now
I remember her because I see
The dawn line reveals
The murder of morning crows
Jettisoned from shadow’s rest
Two pairs swing on their wings
So black they flash nitrous
Each swoop in the warming air
Binds their lifetime bond tighter
I am lone crow
She’s gone
I clutch my talons tightest on this empty telephone wire quivering
On the edge of I-10 staring west
As the moon is torn from its own face
Leaving black flashing silver
Her smile sparkles
Opalina eyes
They tear like crude rainbows
On the wet stone sharpening our knives
Holding our breath
Kiss kiss kiss
Breath is black hole melancholia
I am lone crow witness
Talons clutched tightest on empty wire
Her shadow wing is passing
Is a kiss on the cheek
5 senses cooking up
Face fireworking 4th of July
Alcoholic hole for eyes
Grab me inside, Melancholia
Just where she wants me
On the heartstring plucking it with her talon
We fly in mad memory
Punctilious Blue Angels
Unaware we uncaring of the dangers of love
That if we touch
We’d fall from the sky and die
So closer and closer we move on the air
I just want
Her talon tap on the heart string
Our shadows hover inside each other
We kiss our beaks
Against the dawn line
Revealing a murder
The jettisoned pairs
Beating their wings
Straddling the continental divide
I am seemingly smooth
But jagged as a mountain mourning.

editors note:

Cross-country cogitations on the consequences of crows. (Read another fine set-o’-lines from Chris on his page; it’s a hot (sweet) one.) – mh clay

Texas in the Summer

August 5, 2017  :: 0 comments

It’s so hot
The sweaty business is
We are going
To love or die
Kissing tongue of the sun
Licks the steamy grass
Melting into brown sugar
Yellow sky
Full eyes squinting
Sugar sand squeaks
Wiggling under bare feet
Sleeping in the shade
With a breeze blanket
Covering me today
In poetry dreams
Joy in the waking of words
Breathing deep
Blowing air, 15 dolphins
Leave little plumes
Passing flowers exploding
Like the 4th of July

editors note:

Hot and sweet, together; Texas style. – mh clay

King of Misfit Toys

featured in the poetry forum November 2, 2016  :: 0 comments

I bow before you the king of misfit toys
Always wearing a hole
Always leaving a stain
I didn’t mean to frighten you
I was just thinking like I do
All these years of darkness fondling the dream
Angel versus devil they seem the same thing
All the colors of hurt wing
When love is the hardest thing
Try to fly on a broken wing
When love is the hardest thing

editors note:

To remove a malignancy, yet leave the heart intact; so hard, indeed. (Read another of Chris’s creations; something to crow about, on his page – check it out). – mh clay

Black Crow

November 2, 2016  :: 0 comments

½ way to Death
Exercising this degrading echo
Snatching up in a beak click
Shardied broken mirror
To offer my Love
A trinket of

editors note:

To the victor go the spoils. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum December 19, 2015  :: 0 comments

For many sunsets I went out
Into the fields of my home’s
Longitude and latitude,
Desiderium heavy on my heart
Wondering why the winds encourage
Wings casting shadows brushing lips
And then blow them on their way
The gentle fingertips speaking in Braille language
I do not know
My maps are tuned upside down
Which way to go?
Strayling when They showed me the suicide room
I refused to pull the trigger
So, I fell out of the window, window
The breeze was delicious
There I was wing walking on a bi-plane
Buzzing the State Fair of Texas, 1936
The sky a blue bonnet meadow
The wind and I making out
She kissing back my scarf
Like I was, Fancy
She touches with her tongue
Vibrating carillon of thoughts
Tuning atoms to Yes
Witness the altitude
From the edge of a silver wing
Velocity angling me away
I was a fish made of butter in a hot hand
A smile memory melts me
Smearing the seams
Shaking out the stuffing animal
The buttons were unbuttoning
The zippers were unzipping
Shoe laces were untying
A eulogy burdened by desiderium
All was strayling in the wake
I was a comet hat scarecrow
Losing bit by bit the splattering birds
Were taking away my straw
To weave their nidified nests
I was becoming less and less of a real thing
Until I was just fluttering fabric
A flag eaten by the wind
My hat caught in the briar



Have I become?

editors note:

What? What ever, what not, what gives? What, ye merry! What, indeed! – mh clay

No Luche Contra El Corriente

March 14, 2015  :: 2 comments

From out of the water, resting in the woods
There you found me like you knew you would.
Liberty, the stroke of midnight’s mouth,
In a staring contest with a mirror,
I wonder which one is me.
Now deep enough in the water
The riptide pulls me free,
I am the angel and the echo
Foolishly fighting what must be

We Have Put Away Our Wings To Stand This Close Together

featured in the poetry forum March 14, 2015  :: 0 comments

In the center of a large room is a table.

On the table is a coin.

Everyone knows what the coin says.
“Father, Son, Holy Ghost.”

Everyone around here knows that, they go, “Yeah. True.”

Around this table there are old white men, around them young white men with guns.
Anyone who tries to get close, “No Ma’am. No! No! Ma’am you need to step back.”

Believe me. We all know it says, “Father, Son, Holy Ghost.”

I am a poet. I am trying to learn what is next. I know there is another side to the coin.

I speak up in the room,
“Ready or not we are evolving…
There once was no Blockbuster Video
Then there was Blockbuster Video
Now there is no Blockbuster Video
Times change.”

While you were pondering this
I snatched up the coin from the table.
You know what it says on the other side?

“Mother, Daughter, Spirit of Life.”

Oh look, the edge of the coin says something too…
“Understanding, Justice, Peace, Love, Understanding, Justice, Peace, Love”

Are we not looking for all these things? There are two sides to every coin.

They are coming for me now, I flip the coin into the air and a voice sings out,

Spirit of Life
Holy Ghost”

editors note:

Coined in the heavenly mint, a currency worth risking for all. (Read another of Chris’s mad missives on his page, about giving in without giving up – check it out.) – mh

Vietnam #4
(for Tim Page)

featured in the poetry forum November 16, 2013  :: 1 comment

There are long lines of sweaty men in olive drab
Moving through a low land forest
Hear the heartbeats, the minds drift away
Angry at girlfriends wiggling on some other boy’s lap
Thirsty for beers opened with church keys
Hungry for Grandmother’s favorite recipe
Sitting in memory’s kitchen eating
Slow light, bite by bite.

They are coming past me now
Detonation wires, helmets, holy boots
The click of wedding rings on M-16 stock
The bandages stark white
Now blood red like smoke grenades
Waving into the moment as the radio calls
The static of the radio, incoming rounds
The slogging in leech water
To come to this pulling of the trigger
The burnt gun powder refuse, flames
The song of the shell casings landing in a pile of little bells
The heart is out of control, the eyes are everywhere
The breath a blacksmith’s bellows
The movements of this chaos, the battlefield of man
Killing man killing man killing man
The long distance display of the portrait of the faces behind gun barrels
Lit up with fires, Michael Herr says,
xxxxxx“Vietnam is what we had instead of happy childhoods.”

The mechanics of the clouds, the brown rivers, the land plowed by bombs
Coughing M-79 grenade launchers burp and burn the woods
They lob explosives into your life
Where brothers in arms carry you, feet dragging
Sips of water, blood wet bandages over your eyes
Over legs torn, mangled bits of a self
Faces point with fingers up the Glory Hill
Daggers of smoke
The soft sharp thud, a brutal helicopter
Auto-rotating in from the clouds
Some of these bodies
Will leave skeletons where they fall.

It is a rock’n’roll flash on a pole as women in pink dresses flash peace signs
And part their legs, soldiers dream of pussy waving before their eyes
The cooing choir of soft voices, what the women allow
Arms in the air, drunk for a moment with a cigarette
Nicotine stains gooey on the fingers, breathy fumes of hard alcohol and weed
Flip flops help dry the jungle rot,
Standing on a thousand crates of ammunition
Look down the street
In the air
The roar of the crash
And the suffering
The little yellow mother cradling emaciated crying
Children dusting the bodies with lime
Nuns wailing beyond praying

editors note:

We send’em young with unlined faces; same chaos, different places. Then, we pray for them? (Thanks, Chris, for this real and reverent remembrance.) – mh