Lord of tunnels, I am free,
outside. A new man,
no longer in my dark period
of burning stalactites.
I fall in step beside her,
briefly desire to be back
inside, maybe after dinner.
Tonight, rain could mean
moist embers. Of course,
following good cognac
and a buttery dessert.
The black-leather love
she points at me excites
a deep urge to unholster
my shovel filled with volition.
Dessert and double your entendre (as you will). – mh clay
Go, pack, leave. Be past tense,
deceased. Party, travel — jungle,
ruins, desert, dirty beach.
Museums, monuments, ghettos
back East. Fly home, collapse,
die alone in the street.
Family circle, land, search
attic for gold, freezer for cash,
argue, fake grief. Lawyer, smooth,
likely to look up brewhaha,
find brouhaha, bill it as research,
write a new will, bill that too.
editors note: No peace with the rest in pieces. – mh clay
I’ll wear paths behind barbed wire, deep,
start a tunnel every three feet. Pit bull
waiting my chance — growl, howl, foam,
bite any hand holding a phone. I know
moist treats, meaty bones, all will be
distant memory once I escape,
hit the street. I’ll crap lawns, kill cats,
chase Amazon trucks, police, priests,
make veterinarians not charge a fee.
I’ll torture hydrants with angry pee.
All us dogs are awaiting our chance. In the meantime… fetch! – mh clay
This being America, everyone’s been offed,
mostly shot. We grabbed Colts, Berettas,
Glocks — fitting end for love, friendship,
forgiveness, trust. We wasted rapists,
burglars, thugs. Those of different skin
or faith, friends we hate, our boss.
Knocked off waiters who whine, delay,
text a lot, shoppers ramming carts,
stopping mid-aisle to tweet, flipping
us off. Cheating lovers, drivers
who stink-eye, speed, pass. We blasted
telemarketers last. Every trial,
over in a flash. Defendants,
lawyers, all were snuffed. Even judges
wasted jurors waving guns.
We seem to be going truly viral. In the end, the guns will buy themselves. – mh clay
Ritual journey, known trip
unknown. Tunnel behind,
vaginal, dim. Locked
in memory, blissful ride
amid anemone, cosmos,
buttercup, rose. Lover
now silent, breathing low,
thumbs busy on her phone.
Oh, the pain; she’s about to swipe left. – mh clay
Folks don’t send cards now,
write happy holidays,
lick the glue, add stamps.
Busy instead, stand off,
emoji, scoff, use tired thumbs
to text or tweet. Weird, too,
tendencies, let cruel jokes pass,
ridicule gays, label women
slut or tramp. Who groped whom,
grabbed whose ass. Way too easy,
alone, head down, virtually together,
busy with phone. Most odd, sad
in a huge way, people loving love
less than loving to hate.
Sad, we sods, for whom this is not so odd. – mh clay
r dad up hi
u r super
u r way cool al ovr
give us bred 2day
4giv breakins we do
& WTF no luring
fedx evil away
u r very great
rule on
amen
amen – mh clay
In the beginning, phone-tree,
long branch, press one for savior.
Time on hold to ponder,
do we cease to exist or exist
to cease. Me, out of it, off
a bit, high on tea, so much so
need to call for help, not visit
the spiritualist, where folks queue,
air kiss, woo-woo session
with lost wives, lovers, of whom
I have not any left. Guru hisses,
low-pitched, complete the reversal,
fetch redemption, undo each wrong.
Be less bad than old me, better
than the new. Silence does not mean
no answer. He hangs up on me too.
I’d put god on speed-dial if I knew his number. – mh clay
It goes without saying
she will find Legos and games
stuffed into closet, dirty socks
tucked under bed, candy wrappers
shoved far back in second drawer.
What cannot be discussed
is how faith in you was lost,
hidden away so deep,
out of the blue comes this lack
of trust, sudden need to sift
your stuff. Better not bring up
betrayal, question why she
freaks out, intrudes. Head down,
keep busy with the broom.
And don’t forget to replace those trash can liners. Cleanliness is next to… – mh clay
the way blonde cheerleaders
in mini-skirts land hard,
slap both thighs at mid-court —
one leg out front, straight,
the other stretched back,
toes pointed, everything taut —
bounce back to their feet,
cartwheel around, five times
or four. Hope, however,
does leap up, seek bright sky,
gain height, write a love poem
on damp parchment, in Greek,
before coming down, janitor
once more, still dreamy,
to mop the gym floor.
Me neither, not without traction and painkillers. Let’s write poetry and keep the mops handy. – mh clay
