Around narrow trunks, thoughtlessly spread lights wrap bare trees reaching towards the end of the year. Etched initials on bark are all that exists, nothing lives in the trees. No shadows cover main street’s potholes as Christmas steps dry out on downtown asphalt, the only audience for strung lights atop closed businesses. By the nativity scene between a Spanish-speaking Baptist …
Hands of ravens,
a head of tequila
cast shadows from
random bare light.
Those are thanks,
small visions, seeing
ourselves, our shapes.
Grateful are bones
never saying thanks
to blood, a never
as if you should
have a home.
Fermentation tanks reflect last call exit lights. Finishing beers, the tenth or fifteen, as taproom lights fill in our accidental drunken Thursday. We’re the only two drinkers at midnight other than the bartender who drank to not be our third wheel. We walk and all that watches is the moon, a misshapen fish eye from a broken body of water. …
Smile for our family photo, it will haunt a hallway.
Our photographer prayed for face bones.
Give us this day our daily enamel.
Let us forgive those who don’t floss but speak.
He SHUTTERED at those born with 32 thousand dreams
but are now down to gums.
Going gray until color’s not all that’s gone.
As a teen, my dumb wisdom teeth grew sideways,
as wrong as love goes, so a dentist took a few extra
so my jaw worked too perfectly by adulthood and
I always thought they went into my grandma’s dentures.
“Did you pray, son?” Yes! But no one asked if I brushed.
Yesterday forgets before we have an opportunity to,
same as brushing. This picture’s the same, we’re changed.
No one kisses like they used to because they never used to
have enough teeth to assemble a thin cannibal’s bracelet.
Women love jewelry and I’ve made a flashy necklace.
Everyone I’ve kissed was just inspecting teeth to take
or taste words shared with others. These bones deserve better
than me but it all stops at fangs, the tongue, and never digs
to this one deep heart.
That monster keeps growing teeth.
Smile but don’t bite; keep incisors in sight. Threaten love; at least, a good brushing. (Read another mad missive on Tyler’s page; after the bitin’, comes the lickin’ – check it out.) – mh clay
Moving through mountains, never moving them.
Waking nose bleeds but red shade is my own and
nothing’s better than conquered life covered in blood
when lovers grow only aged sugar on tongues
and extend rotten fruit on collapsing branches.
I still don’t want tattoos, only half a grapefruit with your
salt white teeth as pearls sunken into southwest horizon.
Incidents of sun demand day drinking life from suns from palms.
And bodies demand deep shadows but good light for
seeing the good in fingers licked after time is killed.
Sugars to tongues, wet rot congregates to drooling prayers.
Droplets escape, splatter falls to her calf.
Someone should lick it all before sugar sinks
to desert roots and nothing good grows from blood.
Into lungs for straws and out to kiss
as if earth flooded for two of us, our sins,
annual attempts to drown summer.
Rain spots as we walk soaked asphalt
but it hasn’t rained since April.
Music won’t ever melt hearts, August will.
The 6th love language is remembering someone’s coffee order.
How much coffee actually hit our lips
as late summer atmosphere ate palms,
ice disappeared, fast as a favorite sunset.
Cups empty – leaving rings on tables, not fingers.
We held dull hands, numb to grasp
the sun and hold to mouths.
Taste heat and imagine it’s not blood
pulled from above, our god’s a gift from a hanging snake.
Go ahead, drink! Summer’s as temporary as Eden.
Empty cups – do they speak of what filled them?
Empty, all I have and know is who I am. All that’s left,
nothing to offer but two
On emptied cups.
Belle and beau, barrista borne to a common craving for caffeine, if not companionship. – mh clay
Antlers, still attached to frozen plastic bagged deer heads, stare as my husband sits into a sagged old lawn chair in our new garage. Old paint buckets to touch up new scratches we put in our new world pyramid around us. We didn’t need a map to find a home with one another, just a compass. But the damn severed …
Light chased and you carried its weight.
When we spoke, you saw, illuminated our words.
Can’t photograph breaths but what’s breathing,
used to speaking to ghosts, rarely seeing ourselves
lucky with eyes but few measure colors between black and white.
How we’re attuned to shadows isn’t as beautiful as how
we’re exposed in light that speaks for our story.
We see you in dark rooms, measuring
what we see, as we are, how we are.
Vision is but eyes aren’t perpetual so hold to this—
as you saw us
as we hope we sound—profound, ignited bends in shades.
Permanent swirls in static.
This is Tyler’s tribute to our friend and Mad Brother, Dan Rodriguez. Dan has moved on to the next great adventure and we will miss him greatly. No one could bring our words to light like he could. – mh clay
6th Street, hanging as Jesus Christ’s parents
under their son’s cross, hoping he plays a tune, that dying
is an act for city lights while dirt birds perch
in unfinished future rises freed from walls for now,
not spot lit silver cast from bank windows above
6th Street telephone pole people stuck wearing deep
staples from artists before stripped away by a curbside
rock star Christ with god on a guitar for one song
for the end about how Heaven doesn’t have husbands or wives.
6th Street, I’ll pry by teeth until I taste pecan shells,
bite bare all that’s shucked underneath to taste
the middle of what’s not the best but not the worst on
uneven sidewalks as trusting as a liar’s song escaping
bridge ribs while eastward bats bend sunset waves.
6th Street fangs only for small things, never your neck (that’s mine)
in bars leaned as alchemic notebooks with potions to become
monsters eating cities left behind by light
feet on streets, potholes filled by fallen faces.
6th Street posts holed up as hearts.
No matter who hangs, never
take them down to hold.
See only yourself in asphalt as dusk
skidding brake lights spell out
never go home.
To be a rock god (not cod), where fishers of men string guitars (not nets) to strum up new believers. – mh clay
After prayers for small town dreams, miniature struggles for good grades to play sports before graduating to find someone to get caught up in a wedding proposal so ladies in room 39 can tally praises or prayer requests, Janice speaks wearing the elbow chub of Sunday school authority, “And now we can see there’s a new face with us today.” …