The Curse Of Clocks

featured in the poetry forum October 25, 2019  :: 0 comments

I have cursed the clocks
a hundred thousand times
since her death,
and still
time won’t run backward.

I can’t recapture
the days that we had!

It’s just this slog forward
towards old age
and change,
away from the glory of love.

In time,
even the poet’s tears
grow silent.

The puddles
dry.

What was
absolutely is farther away.

And what is
definitely is what is.

editors note:

From bone to stone; what is of what was. – mh clay

A Little Bit Of Awesome

featured in the poetry forum February 16, 2019  :: 0 comments

The truth I’ve found
is that most people just
aren’t all that awesome.
They’re just ok.

I’ve met a few over the years though
that had an awesome streak
in one way or another
and I’ve tried to love that in them
as much as I could.

Of course I acknowledge
the possibility
that this truth is just
a matter of my own perspective
and the awesomeness
I have found
in the few places I’ve found it
is meaningless
to a broader audience.
In which case humans
are all just ordinary
and predictable.

But I prefer to remember it
the way I remember it.

With a little bit of awesome.

editors note:

Pick your awesome. It’s your perspective all the way. – mh clay

Baby Dream

featured in the poetry forum June 2, 2018  :: 1 comment

When I was asleep
on the couch
today
I dreamed of
my oldest son
as a baby.

He was laughing
and playing
in a diaper.
I felt like
I really missed him.
Baby him.
Like I haven’t seen him
in years.
Which was confusing.

Then as I was kind of
waking up
I had to acclimate
to the fact that
the reason I haven’t seen
baby him
in years
is because he grew up.
And he’s 19 now.
And I saw him last week.
And he was drinking whiskey
and talking about
having sex with girls.

editors note:

And then baby him will dream one day of baby you. – mh clay

The Eye of Horus

featured in the poetry forum March 1, 2017  :: 0 comments

When I think about them
my head hurts.
When I talk about them
other people’s eyes squint.
When I look for them
they are hard to find
except for the signs
the subtle symbols.

Where they live
must be far away,
places that I have never been,
but they must have computers
and telephones
and they must meet occasionally
I suppose,
at the Bilderberg Hotel
or the Bohemian Grove.
What they do there
must be Bacchanal
decadent, even alien
or perhaps it’s all just business
the crunching of numbers
the twisting of fate
the shaping of the destinies
of the faceless
the proletariat.

We should find them.
We should kill them
if we can, but

when I think about them
my head hurts,
so I stop.

editors note:

They’re not so subtle these days and they’re wearing us down. (This poem is part of Paul’s new collection “The Machine of Almosting.” He will be launching this book at our Open Mic tonight – come check it out.) – mh clay

Some People Never Get It Right

featured in the poetry forum January 16, 2016  :: 0 comments

Some people drink all night
because it’s what they do,
photographed in Deep Ellum parking lots
while listening to poetry CD’s,
singing Hallelujah
arm-in-arm with a homeless man
named Ray Charles.
Looking for him later
with a banana and cup of hot coffee,
because the world is a fucked up place,
Ray whispered, “Don’t ever give up man,
she’s your soulmate!’ into my ear.
Some people toast the sunrise
giggling and whispering
words of forgiveness,
playing in lawn sprinklers
half-clad at the break of dawn.
They tell each other they
feel like home. But,
people like this aren’t so good at home,
are they?
Some people fall in love with babies
they nickname “Webby”
whose brother asks,
“Where did Paul Sexton get that pretty girl?
At the pretty girl store?”
Some people laugh and cry,
then laugh and cry
so many times together
they become convinced
no one else could possibly understand
them the way they do one another.
They come and go from each other
with a frequency similar to the way
emotions come and go inside their heads.
Some people never get it right
with each other
or with the world.
And people who meet them
always want to give them advice
about what they need to be doing
which mostly they laugh about
and mock
in silly voices,
because they themselves know
that they are more alive than
the smiles on giant crocodiles,
than a million imploding black tar suns,
than most of the rest of you.
Some people never get it right,
but when you meet them
you love the shit out of them
and everybody everywhere
loves the shit out of them.
And you can’t help but wish
they might actually get it right,
not just for each other
and with each other,
right inside themselves,
but right with the world.
A world that, although it seems to love them,
mostly doesn’t get them
or care
or seem to give a shit
about all the million exploding things
they have inside them,
they are trying to get out.
Especially,
the beauty they possess
whilst drinking and singing Hallelujah
late at night
listening to old poems
about to say goodbye again,
about to say goodbye again…

editors note:

If you can catch just one of those exploding things; gotta love the shit outta that. (This is one of the many poems and prose soon to be released in Paul’s new book,  “Hallelujah!,” to be released on Feb 26 (get details here). Early copies are available here – check it out!) – mh clay

Jagged Edge Souls

featured in the poetry forum April 16, 2015  :: 0 comments

Baby, all kinds of people
have different shaped souls.
A lot of people, regular people
have souls shaped like squares.
It’s easy for them to find someone.
Just another square,
to sit next to them on the couch
watch Network TV
spend their corporate paycheck.
It’s easy for square souls
to find other souls.
But me and you?
we’re complicated.
We have souls with crazy jagged edges
Like jigsaw puzzle pieces
and it’s difficult to find
that one puzzle piece of a soul
that fits next to your puzzle piece soul.
but I’ve found it.
You are the jigsaw puzzle piece to my soul.

I used to tell her this sometimes,
when she was mine, and
she used to like to hear it.

editors note:

It’s hard to pick through the pile for another perfect piece when you had one in your pocket. – mh

dresses

July 15, 2014  :: 0 comments

Every time I walk into
the grocery store
to buy a case of beer
I pass a rack of
tie died sun dresses.

Every time I think
that I would buy one
for you
if you were still alive.

Every time I think
of how beautiful
you would look
in one.
With your beautiful
shoulders
and your beautiful
legs.

You always looked best
in a dress.
Not in the crazy short
skirts
and outfits you would wear
to impress an audience,
that was sexy,
but I loved you best
in just a regular
dress.
Hair curly
and looking like a girl.

But you are gone.

I walk by the rack of dresses
think of you
and buy a case of beer.

I go and drink the beer
with my friend.
But you are always
on my mind.

Yes indeed,
you are always
on my mind.

editors note:

Beer to blur the vision of what was, dresses to bring it back, crystal clear. Beer, dress, repeat… – mh

BEAUTIFUL

featured in the poetry forum May 24, 2012  :: 0 comments

She was so beautiful,
I don’t think that
I told her that
enough.

I was always worried
that she would think me
interested in her
for shallow
surface
reasons
and not her
magnificent
intellect
personality
humor
spirit
and such.

So, I held back
on telling her
how beautiful she was
as much
as I thought it,
and when I did,
it was always with the
qualifier
that true beauty
comes from the inside
and that this is what
she possessed
in such a big way.

It was probably
the right approach.
But if I had it to do
again
if she were still
alive,
I would
stare
into her eyes
every single morning,
and whisper
into her ear
that she was
the most beautiful
woman
I have ever known.
And she was,
she truly
truly
was.

editors note:

Yes, she was! – mh

September Afternoon

March 30, 2011  :: 0 comments

A heart no longer
beats
within this chest.

I left mine,
gently placed upon
an old yellow blanket
in the park,
on a sunny
September afternoon.

Along side
a guitar
a glass of Merlot
and a book from
the used book store.

Look!
Look!
I can see it clearly,
this image,
it is there!

The blanket
is not balled up
in the trunk of the car,
my true love has not died,
and I do not
drink Merlot
alone!

(10/2010)

A Freud Kind Of Day

featured in the poetry forum March 30, 2011  :: 0 comments

I’m at the Jack In The Box next to the auto mechanic
drinking a vanilla milkshake while reading a book
that my drunk poet buddy threw me,
examining cultural history in the context of
a radical reinterpretation of Freudian Psychoanalysis.

It made me think of last night, coming out of
the Ozzy Rabbit Lodge, a local bar where they have
a mural of Ruby Shooting Oswald, on the wall.
I was vomiting in the parking lot, just below
the sign reading “smile you’re on camera.”

It could have been the $1.25 PBR beer special
or perhaps the phone call with a friend
who said; “Faith in anything is meaningless,
we are all just a bunch of goofy monkeys
who only evolved intellect because it was sexy.”

It made me think of my beloved, before she left.
We had gotten so close and familiar that
when we were drunk and she decided that
I needed to vomit, she would hold me down
and stick her finger down my throat until I did.
Which is a pretty odd thing to see, yourself
vomiting on the hand of the woman you love,
particularly an Anal Retentive Germophobe.

The third time she did this was by a swimming pool
drinking till 6am with my poet buddy.
The same night he threw me the book, as he
watched us, shaking his head, a little weirded out.

He later suggested some type of Oedipal Mother
archetype control dominance dynamic.
The other friend suggested a more straight up
sexual reverse penetration/ejaculation
play rape reenactment dynamic.
Either way, admittedly, I did get off on it
in some vague not quite explainable way.

As I’m finishing the milkshake, the thought
occurs to me, that when my mad love returns,
beyond simply seeing a therapist together,
it might behoove me to read up on and study,
hell, even become and expert on,
Freudian Psychoanalytical concepts.
I think we’ve really got something there.

Outside the Jack In The Box I vomited
about half the vanilla milkshake
onto the pavement while some Ginger kid
on a motorcycle, looked at me strangely.

Leaned over forward, clearing my throat,
spitting like that, made me cry just a little bit.
It reminded me of her.

(08/2010)

editors note:

A radical reinterpretation of Freud through Shakespearean tragi-comic parking lot character confession and gastrointestinal divination. – mh