featured in the poetry forum July 2, 2022  :: 0 comments

I ate an intangerine,
as tangible phantoms dream
of how we used to reach out and touch before the big machine brought us all together so separately,
they tell me the world used to be more real but just as mean, I see what you meme.

Take a bite out of the war crimes glitzing up your screen,
spit out blood and naughty thoughts of bodies littering the streets in spring;
fascism bubbling up from underneath these peace-loving democracies,
hypocrisies abound when we compare reactions to the stream of seriously perseverant refugees escaping
war, delirious, from Ukraine vs a place like Syria, or mother Africa.

Stamina is what it takes to make these double standards but,
we’ve always been good at showing the world we are running towards the idea of progress,
like a backsliding treadmill in sexual congress with a sinking ship throwing off ballast at both wings and
calling it a two-party system that works,
we are just a bunch of circle jerks that stole the world, ruined it, and gave it back without the perks.

She had a name before we made her take the walk of shame and it wasn’t dirt; Earth was the first
plus-sized woman spilling over with the treasures of her self-worth. We wore her ass out, infected her, and
now for what it’s worth, she’s worse.

Oh, she’ll recover after the fever comes that boils the sickness away,
we are a plague with shoes that sings the terminator blues,
we delivered our own judgment day,
and now how we pray.

To God be the glory, to Earth be the Sun,
there will come a time when our time will come,
we can’t hide or run,
but we think it’s fun
to imagine our own exciting extinction.

But, and here’s a funny distinction,
we blow up just for getting fired,
liars done signed the pink slips,
our rivals all got rehired
after a Catholic-style master bait-and-switch.

We put our trash in the ocean,
we put our smoke in the sky,
we shit the bed and slept in it,
but want it changed before our children die,
but they will drown in our filth,
we’ll see our hell in their eyes,
and as the land cracks history open,
and volcanoes arise,
and tsunamis wipe out the irradiated cities as the emaciated sun says goodbye,
we’ll wish for a fucking hole in the ozone,
instead of violently ultraviolet skies,
we’ll reminisce about the polar icecaps,
and we’ll miss wildlife that once could run, swim, or fly,
and as for I?

I hope I pass away
long before the day
the music dies.

By the way,
I made my
irrational national American pi(e)
with these intangerines,
so you can throw that Apple out the window, there’s a computer worm bit clean
in half,
and as flags fly at coronaviral half mask,
I, at last, become intangible,
almost unattainable,
hard to find, like a good Lunchable.

This Dallasite’s disappearing into the broke – back – ground,
a fruit fly on the western wall,
I’m the Observer leaving a paper trail to be found,
the flaming cowboy watchman watching y’all,
(hell of a peepshow for a deep throat,
but this counts as my beat poem,)
so goodbye, all!

editors note:

In death, we’ll hold that rictus, while Earth will still have citrus. – mh clay


November 30, 2021  :: 0 comments

For dad, and his wild heart. Once when we were children, our father kidnapped us from our mother to take us across the desert. His wood-paneled station wagon roared through El Paso, New Mexico, and Arizona. I played with my prize toy, an E.T. plush, in the back of that car under a white sheet. In school I had been …

[I wonder,]

featured in the poetry forum February 11, 2020  :: 0 comments

when God cradled
my body with care, and,
making sure that all my fingers
and toes were accounted for,
exhaled life into:

A.) the absence of breath,
B.) a paper wingbox filled with formless prayers,
C.) an accordion-boned empty house,
D.) a desperate cathedral made for waiting on the Lord;

when he blew that perfect breath into this unworthy form,
did he know just how hard his nimbused knee pressed into the small of my back?

I wonder,
was it his effervescent kiss
that mangled my tiny body so,
or was it the crushing weight of his love?

editors note:

Figuring what to make of a maker’s motivations… – mh clay

Dig the body whole.

featured in the poetry forum September 9, 2018  :: 1 comment

Dig the body whole,
A proper vessel’s hollow;
Six feet at a time, fold
Your shovel into the shallow.

Pull grief stones to surface,
Wet dirt easier to plow,
Make the system nervous,
Centralize all feeling now!

Dig the body clean,
Toxins fit in quite well,
Till comfort zones spring
Up and health hard to tell.

Push off with force from habit,
Let bad thoughts be composted.
If optimism’s hard to grab at,
Try being lightly toasted!

editors note:

From root to rhyme; (de)compose yourself. – mh clay

nonet #8

featured in the poetry forum May 2, 2018  :: 0 comments

mountainous jaws rending coral sky
talkin shit about a sunset
cumulonimbus cloud church
columns of creation
high priest barn owl shrieks
paper plane crash
heat lightning
field boys

editors note:

From nine to one, this nuanced nonet; nicely done. Run! – mh clay

the fall.

featured in the poetry forum September 18, 2017  :: 0 comments


i fell hard enough one day to break bone,
fell flat on my back.
i kept doing it over
and over,
until the weaker protrusions
growing out of my scapula broke clean off.
then i buried my hollow bones,
my shriveled little wings,
deep down in the barren earth,
and i waited.


i waited so long,
a lifetime,
a long and lonely time,
for them to be uncovered.
just so someone could finally
call any part of me a miracle,
and mean it.


i never said i could fly,
lord no,
i’m not an angel.
but oh,
i can grow wings,
and i can fall.

editors note:

Wings or no; with the right words… (Bear has a new set of chapbooks out, Time Travel for Daydreamers. Get’em here.) – mh clay

Excavate this city.

featured in the poetry forum September 30, 2016  :: 0 comments

Excavate this city.
(Dig me out.)

Let love pull whole cities out of me.
Cities filled with everything love ever needed to replace.

Pain is the asphalt, heartbreak builds character
And towers as tall as daylight.

Somebody’s gotta do the dirty work.
Let it be love.

Let love excavate my ego,
my pulsing need to be noticed,
to be vindicated.

Let’s tell the paradise of orgies and organs what we really think of it.

Let’s allow our pain to trap itself,
trap everything else that falls into it,
attracted by the scent.

Pull the worst of me out by the roots,
and burn it until the smoke rises high and asphyxiates
every vile goddamned seraphim who dared to judge me.

You have no city,
you can’t grow or build,
can’t excavate or replace.

The poor bastards only have paradise.

All they got is love,
a medicine deemed useless without the sickness.

Just give it away,
to someone who knows how to fucking use it.
Don’t judge.

I’m collecting cities,
(the ones I haven’t burned to the ground,)
that stand dried out, still and sterile
with calcified hurt and petrified anger.

I place their empty shells next to each other,
a growing black metropolis filled with every single time I hated god,
or the world,
and tried to prove it.

There are more attempted suicides buried there than demons.
More skyscrapers to my ego and detriment there than I hold inside me now.

Without the tinkerer, excavator, surgeon,
I’d have nuked the whole icky black
growing mass of mess in me
to hell a long, long time ago.

Even a blast crater is better than an empty paradise.

Dig me out, man,
it’s time.
It’s growing bigger than I’m growing.

And I’m getting up there,
haven’t you heard?
Hell, I got heartbreak towers.

Tall as the everlovin morning.

editors note:

Even a pothole repair program is a good start. – mh clay

the bird freed from form.

featured in the poetry forum July 6, 2016  :: 1 comment

what is origami without paper?
the bird freed from form,
the hands signing to the void:
we could not bend the air.

i saw the bird in mind before i began,
and just never stopped seeing it.

now she flies where i do,
wings unfolded by freedom,
body untouched by matter,
song uncluttered by shape.

i once saw one hand clapping,
and knew the only bird
who could hear the sound.

editors note:

A koan constructed for our enlightenment; or, the bird’s. Selah… – mh clay

mouths drawn like swords.

featured in the poetry forum March 1, 2016  :: 0 comments

in the lion-hearted morning,
we roll over in bed,
exposing daggers hidden the night before.

we arise to a love like an arms deal,
you will die painfully,
i will die painfully,
both of us rich,
both of us at war,
but this pact will stiffen my spine,
exacerbate your zeal.

there are empty planetariums spinning galaxies for no one,
and here we are, unable to look up,
hands at our sides,
our mouths drawn like swords;
a whole universe wasted by the dilation of your pupils,
and the bated breath that comes with an honest emotion felt between liars.

the only way to make anti-venom is with venom,
and so there is hope in the dna of betrayal.

i do not trust you,
nor you i,
and therein lies the promise of a bloody alliance,
but still,
we break pacts like hearts in the night.

we circle and swoop like falcons,
talons out,
razor wings,
this will end badly for both,
one will die on top of the other,
but no one will live to claim victory.

warriors thrusting sun shields,
hiding gleaming swords behind our fear,
we retreated until our backs met,
and then we entered the truce of a new dawn together.

if i die with my dick out,
know i was not unprepared,
i am an opportunist with my time,
and i know what’s coming.

in the field at late afternoon,
you are my crown,
and my assassin.

because no matter what,
you’re both on my mind,
and in my head.

we dance around each other
like fighters in a death waltz,
we play chess with body parts,
and we play to win.

love happens along the way maybe, for a while,
but the goal is to dance with your opponent,
and know your place is with them on the battlefield,
because to love is to spar on equal footing.

seasons are not enemies,
but burned-out cycles of orange and green,
of color and decay,
working together to inspire us,
to ensnare us,
and to kill us.

so do not forget, my honored adversary,
my wounded viper,
my snarling love,

by another name
is war.

editors note:

With mutual victory and defeat assured; truly, all’s fair… – mh clay

Tonight is for the Amber

featured in the poetry forum November 21, 2015  :: 0 comments

Suppose her eyes were wet,
and the moon was blue, and

fish laid coins at our bare feet.
Terrifying mystery, wondering

how fast a boat tomorrow
rides in, gliding forever across

a glass sea of drowned yesterdays.
We stood at the shore and waved

at thin cranes dark against the horizon,
like music notes on a purple staff.

Some memories are trapped in amber,
others in broken glass, and I can’t recall

those days, and I shouldn’t, because I
put them there. Sometimes we cut our

feet looking for gold. Suppose love is a memory
of unity, and some of us cannot remember.

Suppose her eyes were blue, and the fish
were wet, and the moon laid bright coins

at our bare feet. Fantasy is just reality on its
head. But either way, tonight is for the amber.

editors note:

A fish for a fantasy; a look at the world through amber-colored glasses. (We welcome James – we call him Bear – to our crazy confab of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay