t​he too deep rose is infinite

July 16, 2015  :: 0 comments

t​he rose is pushing inland.

i have long pondered the quiet rim of unbearable madness.
a coffee bean falls to the floor,
to be crushed but never used.

the delicate balancing act of twin unhappinesses,
lost love and hard life,
while making it all look like it glows, effortlessly.

one hole in the sock, where the toe pokes through,
trying to pull it back in your sleep.

the storm on paper, on viridescent screens,
that no one really knows, until the power goes out,
and all we can hear are thunder and sirens.

the faint cry to the earth of “mercy,”
after you realize you’re in a poor man’s deja vu.

the rose is etching itself upon our hands.
i have long pondered the stark truth of unbearable madness.
the revolving door of paychecks come and gone,
and the bills that take them.

the silence in the house of the lonely spinster,
and the cries that pierce the night like a gunshot in the distance.

that one spot in the middle of your back,
that you can never quite reach,
like a secret key to contentment.

a cart full of new groceries,
but the card says denied,
just as your stomach rumbles like a ghost.

lying on your back looking up at the night sky,
asking the universe if we are alone,
and the universe suddenly answers back “no,”
and suddenly you count the stars,
estimate the planets,
and begin to worry,
just barely able to sanely cope with one world,
so you reply back with, “well, why not?”

the rose folds itself into a star.

editors note:

A rose is a rose is a reason to question everything. – mh clay


August 24, 2013  :: 0 comments

“your daddy was a bastard, Lisa, never trust men, they’ll hurt you just like he did. but your mama, your mama will never do you wrong.” —— Dead Mama. 2 YEARS LATER. (camera fades in on a desolate gas station in mesa, arizona. car pulls in and parks, and a tall, busty, blonde-haired woman walks out, and into the gas …

We’re Fucked.

May 10, 2013  :: 0 comments

the problem is this,
his blood is outrunning my legs
and i’m out of breath.

i told you, son,
there is only one
conclusion to living
by the gun.

i’m sick.

the problem is this,
his blood is running down my legs
and i’m out of my mind.

it’s a hard life, in fact,
this existential balancing act
between power and gunpowder,
live or die, reload and attack.

you’re dead.

the problem is this,
my blood is running through his legs,
and i’m out of bullets.

if you’re not with me, you’re against me,
a father’s love comes with no pity
when you play with papa’s guns,
papa’s guns don’t play, timmy.

we’re fucked.

editors note:

So long as we play with toys like these, we are indeed! – mh clay