the younger guys
call me grandpa
in the gay chats
even when i pretend
to be younger,
but i always
pretend to be younger,
to be relevant,
even though
i’ve never been relevant.
ever.
once i hit 50 i lost
my value
as a member of
a core audience.
sometimes i forget
i’ve never been
core audience
even in days of
relative youth
and relevancy.
That place where not even your two cents are valued; hurts to the core. (We welcome Jack to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay
we tramp around
parking lots,
our mawing mouths
chewing in the thick
hot air.
clouds take congress
overhead but nothing comes.
our clenched fists
wave up in anger
at an insulant sky,
but a deluge
never comes.
other clouds gather
and we eye them with suspicion.
the noise of thunder
begins to call out.
four riders appear
just before the storm.
sharpen your sabers,
brothers and sisters,
sharpen them now.
November’s coming.
Gods help us; November is here! – mh clay
throats crowd with words
& i cannot clearly hear what is said.
two women argue about this & that.
there is a laugh
then a gunshot
then sirens for the dearly departed.
i lick my fingertip & turn the page,
and turn the page,
and turn the page,
amen.
We’re numbed, afoul of the daily feed. – mh clay
lost & alone in the garden
of “give a fuck” i watch first rays
of light drift into a morning sky as my
barren feet crunch across grass frozen
in a thin frost, a lingering reminder
of a rampaging night –
leaves glitter & toss as a sullen wind weeps
through tall branches, rabbits alight from
hiding, eager to sup on morning gifts of
sustenance & life, w/cock in hand i piss
on dirt & rock, dreams still rattle in my skull –
he is gone, he is gone, he is gone –
i stretch & yawn, regain my cup & drink deeply,
steaming coffee burns my lips & tongue yet i
take it all in a single gulp; my head aches & moans,
but daylight inches up my skin, retrieving my
sanity as the warmth of life embraces me again –
yellow & orange & blue flowers bloom, their stamens
erect & eager; petals unfold to receive the gift of
a now risen sun; bees hover & dart before setting down
gentle, rubbing & inhaling the flowers’ scent, its taste sweet
sticky, trickle down your throat; remembrance of your
sorrow as you take me in again –
he is gone, he is gone, he is gone –
Sweet, sad reminders in a garden of gone. – mh clay
