Untapped
knowledge
rages
inside
a
dying
man
like
a
wildfire
raging
within
the
Santiago
Canyon
As
katabatic
winds
suffocate
sympathy
and
feed
Western
sycamore
ashes
against
the
suffering
September
skyline
Apparently, “you can’t take it with you,” doesn’t apply to what they don’t tell, when we don’t ask. – mh clay
On
the way
to Spanish Springs
we stopped
to pay
our last
respects
Henry’s ashes
had just been
interred
at Our Mother
of Sorrow
Catholic Cemetery
N’ I’ll
never forget
the feelin’
I felt
that August
afternoon
as I
studied
my spit shine
wingtip reflection
While Henry’s
baby brother Jim
struggled to sing
Blind Willie’s
‘Statesboro Blues’
When sad is a song and a recollection, there’s nothin’ like a spit shine shoe reflection. – mh clay
After
we paid our
one-eyed wheelman
and that sketchy
shade tree surgeon
off Springdale drive…
We split
eighty five large
three ways
and spent
seven days
at The Palms
down in
Mazatlan…
Just lickin’
our wounds…
while tryin’
to dream up
a better way
to do things
the next
time
Hmmm. It appears the wages of sin is seven days in Mazatlan? (We welcome K.W. to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission – the first to join us in 2019. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay
In
this
Lone
Mountain
turquoise
set
in
sterling
silver…
I
see
traces
of
all
the
faces
I’ve
bluffed
along
the
way
editors note: Haunted? Or, humbled? Depends on the take… – mh clay
When
Darla
deals
bullets
from
the
bottom
of
the
deck…
I
stand
silent
during
the
flop
and
await
the
fatal
turn
onto
fifth
street
Do you duck and cover? Or, depend on the luck o’ the draw? – mh clay
