There were those who said
he was some kind of genius,
but most saw him
as a drunk,
sprawling
on the sidewalk,
pants wet
from his own
water.
The very smell of him
would make heads turn,
generally away,
and yet there were those
who found the sight
and odor
appealing.
They became
unsought acolytes,
keeping their devotions
secret,
lest average mortals,
or the master,
see them
when bloodshot eyes
stirred,
wherever they might be,
in this city
of concrete
and mysteries.
There’s a mystery to every miscreant. – mh clay
The weight of words
and the mockery of men.
All this and the weather too.
Storms outside and in.
The crashing of consonants.
The anguish of vowels.
The glares of the ignorant
content in their simplicity.
The otherness of the stranger
isolated by his addiction
to all those sounds
containing meanings
that you strive so hard
to understand.
They ain’t heavy… – mh clay
You refused to wear leather,
but, in dreams, there you are,
all boots and straps of dead cow,
and not much else.
A pity really.
You look so good that way.
But a dream is what it is.
And waking is what it is as well.
The hands that once held you
are less solid than clouds,
and can not hold on
to what they want, and once had,
in other ways, in other times,
and other configurations,
but never enough to satisfy
eyes that could see so much
after they were closed.
Lamenting what was seen but not had. – mh clay
The world always walks
on a tightrope over fire.
The world always walks
through a field of mines.
The world always walks
with the devil at its shoulder.
The world always walked
blindfolded towards a cliff.
Ants do not know this.
They build their cities underground.
They work day and night
to feed their numbers,
and fight the small beasts
that threaten their survival.
Grass has no knowledge
of the end of time
being as close as a kiss
from the wind.
It grows in the sun
and sends roots
through the soil.
So much that lives goes on
without anxiety or calculation
of the risks.
Yet hominids in cloth coverings
worry over this,
knowing they are the source
of much of the trouble
plaguing the home
of the big and the small.
If the other things were aware of how we are walking the world, they might choose to stop our global swarming. – mh clay
Everything matters when nothing matters.
The way the dust falls in the light.
How a cat stalks a spider.
The scrape of steel wool
against an iron frying pan.
It all matters.
It all matters so much
because nothing matters.
It all stopped mattering.
Now the sight and sound
of all that continues
to go on and be
oblivious
to the fact that nothing matters,
eats at your gizzard,
tears at your lungs.
You can’t breathe.
You can’t think.
You can’t watch.
You can’t listen.
All you can do
is sulk in your chair,
pull at a beer
and pretend the TV
talking to you
is the one you miss.
Until all that matters is the background chatter. – mh clay
I try to bleed a little bit each day.
Not a lot, just a little.
A nip here, a cut there.
No big puddles on the floor.
Shaving is usually enough
to make the sacrifice,
feed the dark gods,
keep them hungry
but satisfied enough
to let me get through the day.
The small loss
may bring the sunrise
that lights up my room
and the garden outside,
keep things in balance,
and send the demons
to the next house over
until skin heals
and whiskers grow again.
No styptic to stall the dawn. – mh clay
The wife sleeps. She gets up at 4 AM.
It’s 9 PM and I feel guilty for being up.
I try not to make noise, just scratches on paper.
All these words are toned down
so as not to wake an early riser.
Any excitement in them
is of the quiet kind,
what you find when fishing,
or driving a country road
just to see where it goes,
or turning a page in a book
with all that thunder and gunfire
locked down into sentences,
so only you can hear it.
Reading out loud with nary a sound. – mh clay
The piano is afraid of the cello.
It does not know why but it is.
The drums exist in their own world.
The horns, close by, waiver in loyalty,
longing for the violins and violas,
but knowing the brass section is exiled
to a land of greater noise.
The conductor sees all,
but ignores as much as possible
such discord in practice and concert.
It is her job to make all rise above
the petty squabbles,
insecurities, rivalries, foolishness
of so many instruments
assembled for a purpose,
greater than their own,
and lead them, as best she can,
in finding a harmony
greater than the sound
of so many individuals
so near to each other’s throats.
Well, tickle my tympani, there’s enough tension there to put a “t” in Eroica. – mh clay
In the mud and murk
Trout hide well
Along with turtles
And tadpoles.
A body however
Would be easier
To find
Unless chopped small.
A creek yay deep
Is better for concealing
The small and living
Than the big and dead.
Still, people try.
The water looks deeper
Than it is
And strangers
Who pull up in cars
With loaded trunks
Don’t realize
How many hooks
Probe the dark green
Of a summer day.
A plea for responsible recycling. – mh clay
You look once
and see magic.
You look again
and see nothing at all.
That’s the way it goes kids.
Miracles are all in the timing.
Get it wrong
and it’s just another game of cards.
With nothing but imagination up your sleeve. – mh clay
