meant that i couldn’t yell
not even on the inside
only whoop like a bird
with my underdeveloped lungs
trying to escape
the trailer park even then
as the knack sang
on the radio
about things
more precious
than air.
Always seeking that precious breath of fresh. – mh clay
as curly sits playing keno
he offers me a shot of hot damn
while telling me how last summer
he took a group of writers out on his boat
& mentions that he doesn’t really even like to read
but he has a sense of adventure
he is huck decades later
searching for becky thatcher
from the same barstool almost every night
the fog is thick in his mind
but he is still the closest thing to mark twain
franklin county has on a tuesday afternoon
o sweet becky thatcher
i can feel the heat
coming off of his glass
every time
he mentions your name.
When what if is better than what happens. Hot damn! – mh clay
prophets were born and raised here
their bones in the pipeline of the past
when each man was his own tribe
when the lenape cried out
in the sunlight
for mother’s milk
after the jug of the spirit
had gone empty
when the boy from bartlesville
watched young girls dance
just outside his window
pacing the ward floor
waiting for muhammad
to seek his advice
when invisible prairies still offered
the possibility of young love
when the cosmos was powered
by white bread & gasoline
when wind ripped through these fields
like the last gust of breath from the dead
when nothing sacred
could be held down
by a stone.
When what was, isn’t now; it takes a true tribesman to figure it out. – mh clay
for Victor Clevenger and Everette Maddox
written down
on the bathroom wall
of the maple leaf bar
is
tell my mother i love her
somewhere the marrow
of our speech
is always
faint praise
& we are all veterans
of some invisible war
but we still need these memories
& plenty of paper towels
to wash our hands.
Soap for the soul – wash up, now. (We welcome John to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay
for Mark Shaffer
remember to dance in a 10 ft steel cage
one for every year of your life
to dream of a future
filled with flying cars
and international date lines
that seem as limitless
as homespun wisdom
somewhere a little voice
tells you to drown a mermaid
in 39 ft of water or a hill of dirt
it sings for blood
as the sun
touches your skin.
Casualties; your trail of crumbs to mark the way. – mh clay
for Victor Clevenger
just south of muskogee
dumpster cats guard crumbling pyramids
& discarded bbq grills
in the moonlight
the creek nation girls still dance
in honor of their own virginity
covered in dust
& humble bones
yelling free bird lives
free bird lives
here everyone is loyal
& your breath just hangs there
as heavy as a cloud
& apartments are shaped
like tombstones
& the outline of a girl’s hips
in the shadow of a lonely gas station
can still transport you back
to a better time.
free bird lives, yes! – mh clay
