June 26, 2021  :: 0 comments

Dude, like around 8? No, maybe like 9, in the morning, I ate three blotters. I’ve done Lucy a bunch of times, but I forreal hadn’t done ‘em like that early or whatever. My friends and I found a connection on ‘em a few weeks earlier, so we’d been taking a few hits every weekend or whatever. But that day, …

The Leech Speech

July 27, 2019  :: 0 comments

I heard him brag, in a speech at work, that he was self made. I was so focused on the beads of sweat dripping down his face that I didn’t think twice about being told to shine the light on him as he speaks. It wasn’t until after my boss walked away, and I saw him slither in, that I …


featured in the poetry forum May 24, 2015  :: 0 comments

*[Enter a] Laid back “Chia-Pet” from way back… (Face plant)
I ate off of con men like “no trade back” place mats.

From Gabe’s moon’s orbit to dark projects morbid
there’s no forfeit.
“…Get absorbent or get to being corpses…”
I’m as horrid as foreign… Check the pass portage.

“Call security Doug!”
(No part’s part of your club.)

If I was made in Taiwan, my guidon would fly on
a pillar of “hi Moms,” Micro minded. (Mental ion)

I’m on, but not on my own shit, like shape shift
Grendel flies.
…Single minded…
“Nay say and intake eight dicks!”

I can see they hate this…
…can’t fade this… (No chop shop)
Eraser faces get nibbled on like hot wings or pork chops.

(Ride on by at 9:09.)
“My oh my… Why oh why?!?”

*Animal farm [and] Caesar’s got a clever trying to dine on swine.

My life story’s an allegory
and so gory. [It’s] Animorphing.
(After forming)
I’m left to find the room to make them ambulatory.

I’ve got every piece flat of my bright orange race track.
Even the round-about that I stole from the kid around the way. (Man…)

…In other words I’m all in…

[I] Missed the boat but crawled in…
…Doggy paddled my way passed my grave
while greased wheels spin.

I low fived Poseidon.
*Ray Liotta style
“Good looking out though…”

My name isn’t Johnny but the pipes keep calling me out though.
*Lifted (also)
*Smashing high notes (like I was an alto.)

“…The tight rope’s far from parallel.” (I’ll be damned if I fall though…)

“This shit sucks!”
[It] Grasps at straws like greedy love birds…

“Gather girly!”
*[Enter] the rather burly fury of Mother Hubbard

*Expose the gun show
(with romance novel structure –
– I’d prefer to keep the main attraction under covers –
– to tickle imaginations)
Imagine your infatuation.
You probably picture me as an amber jaded animation.

Slice antiquated magazines for jagged placement
[of] collaged features, just don’t expect any affirmation.

I’m a virtuous patient staying patient because it’s a virtue.
I’ll hurry up and wait, nod along like I really heard you,
ignore the curse clues and even except the absurd, too.
(Just don’t ask me to accept that my life decisions concern you.)

There’s not a piece of me that will reside peacefully
in a scenery as passive as the greenery.

Equally, I feel a fool while out of touch,
being a black smudge and throwing my hands up.
(half drunk)

Passed what was once my goals.
Passed my prime (passed warm) like ash coals.

[I have] A past, cold.
[I] look like a man. (With a crab’s soul.)

“Ass hole?” – I’m a whole ass that laughs bold.

“Mole man?” I’m deeper then Marilyn Monroe’s

[I’m] A man mole living deeper then you’re daring to go.

[I’m a] Cave creature wearing a skull that’s apparently gold.
[Wielding] An obsidian limb conditioned to carry and hold.
*Wave it at the prime meridians of invalids (who go –
too far from their homeland of “do what you’re told.”)

I’m outlandish.
[I’m] Proud actions mixed with passion.

If you get to clashing, I’ll get my can of whoop-ass and
chug deep.

*Punch meat (like Rocky Tiger Eyes.)
…Hit you where my lighter lies and leave you seeing stars like fireflys.

“’Bout time to retire”
*I pack up my crops in a box
(I call them props and load them up on a packing mule or an ox)

editors note:

A lot to pack in a box here; crazy meandering ox here. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum July 31, 2009  :: 0 comments

i’ve been having a reoccurring dream
where i wake up at 6 a.m. on the dot and get ready for work
sometimes it’s a circus and sometimes
i wake up in unfamiliar places
i never dream long enough to actually get to work
i always wake up seconds before, look at my clock,
see its 6 a.m. on the dot and get ready for work
i live a life viewed in hindsight
so if i ever trip over my own 2 feet
i can laugh at myself and say wow…that sucked
past tense, the now is a memory…
i shaved my head again…i like it like that
it matches my personality
i’m RAW…
RAW like the sex with a friend’s cousin
in her basement while her family slept upstairs
she was 16 and i was 17 going on whatever
warm body seemed interested
back then life was simpler
simpler like making commitments
we knew we wouldn’t have to live up to
simpler like lying on a job application about an arrest history
simpler like playing chess with my grandfather when i was 6
cuz he always let me win
simpler like procrastinating on living life cuz man
i got too many things to reminisce about
back then we were too young to get married
so i love u was easier to say
and next year seemed like a lifetime
so opportunities were easier to piss away
but easy doesn’t build…it can’t…
so i washed away the easy
and let my scalp breathe
now i can feel the breeze blow all the way down
thru my skull and into my brain
sucking the cluster fuck of what will be’s
into a whirlwind of sera sera’s
there is a separation in my personality…2 me’s if u will
one ends a sentence with dude and one with sir
but never confuse my aspiration for theirs
their war on terror and my war on not
being just another faceless
starving artist
just happen to have a common goal…
getting me the fuck out of texas
so i scribbled my name on that dotted line
i signed my initials to my family’s sudden pride
and added a rank to my john hancock
i used to dream about touring the globe
performing like a monkey as
passersby threw peanuts my way
in between dreaming about wrestling
kimodo dragons and long jumping
over bob cats
i’d dream in lended rooms placed
in borrowed homes scattered all over
the country
i’d wake up at noon and try to figure out what
fucking state i was in and with who
now i wake up at 6 a.m. on the dot
and get ready for work
sometimes it feels like a circus and
sometimes i wake up in unfamiliar places
but 3 years 6 months and 23 days from now
i’ll have served my time
and maybe…just maybe, i’ll still shave my head


featured in the poetry forum July 31, 2009  :: 0 comments

there’s a hole in my heart the depth of the deepest crater on the densest
planet in the furthest galaxy
so it’s no wonder your submarine built with screen doors and windows
shattered into tiny little pieces long before-
-reaching my final destination (good riddance)
like that girl i watched swish around dark emotions in that head of
hers like battling skipping stones
’til those ripples turned into waves and those waves were given
titles too bold to be ignored
round and round she thought herself into a whirlpool and got sucked
down in that shit
but at the bottom of her o-she’s-manic trip to 5000 leagues under the she
that girl found a scuba mask and an oxygen tank to help her breathe
again and see thru her emotions
realizing slowly coping skills like ah that’s ah her ah cane
for her mental, i tried to tell her upon witnessing her initial floundering
seeing a little piece of this fish in her like cheap california rolls
i wasn’t surprised by her resistant look i mean growing gills looks
fishy on the surface
but when u get past the layers of scales a survival mechanism is a
survival mechanism sink or swim
i couldn’t force her but i was happy to see her using those fins when
she finally swam around
but i’ve gotten off point like a constipated pessimist told to shit or
get off the pot (fuck it)
cuz if u had scales and fins you would be a bitch fish bottom feeding with a
school of followers
too afraid to venture off solo, u must stay in the sea cuz damn boy u
look salty right now
and if i had a pussy i’d use it too hide my obvious disapproval of your false
hoods…and to procure goods and services
but i don’t i let it all hang out i wear my emotions on my crotch and
no i wont put pants on
i’m comfortable with mine and frankly i don’t have the time or the energy
to offer an ear to your opinions anymore
i know you’re not at peace with yours like you had your middle and index
fingers removed on both hands
so stop repeating the second letter in the word fake like AAA wait up
i did i drew a line in the sand put it in a glass cone connected it to
another glass cone and watched it drain to nothing
your time is up….i wish it wasn’t, but wishing is like praying and
praying is like masturbation
fun and lacking in meaning beyond playing with yourself….and coming
but you never came you remained so i’m sorry…repeating the second digit in
that word like o o o my god i’m sorry
but it is what it is
if you were a bird you would be a penguin cursing an empty sky
cuz i’ve flown away…way away…
away like a possible conclusive action to a problem
i’d love to look back but dammit man i’m mid fast pace in a full fledged
race with myself
at a full fledged sprint adding a v to the horizon …can you hear me now
i’m leaving my mark on the distance claiming it as mine…i don’t got a flag
but if that’s all i need to take the separation from you then i’ll smear
blood sweat and tears on fabric and wear it like joseph and his
dream coat
or jesus and his blue eyes and blond beard (falsely)
and be happy oh i’ll be so fucking happy that my mood will infect
passers-by like leaking laughing gas
ha-ha-happy until my smile tears off of my face stretches round the
globe and meets itself in china
all 5 billion some odd humans on this spinning ball of dim yesterdays
and boiling point tomorrows will know how fucking happy i am
bliss isn’t a strong enough word, i’ll be that joyful dope – i mean my
brain will be filled with it
overtaken and made into a newer version of itself like the spanish
molestation of the african and indian women creating latinos
i know you’re probably more lost than a polish astronaut riding thru space
on a schwinn in green sox and orange open-toed sandals
but that’s how i am a mile a minute as low as i can pass off till you
get the drill
cuz i’m deeper than a transcendental acid freak
studying the ways of zen in new orleans
and god dammit i’ll dig my own grave with a tea spoon if i feel like it

story teller

featured in the poetry forum July 31, 2009  :: 0 comments

i lost track of the reasons
too long ago
to honestly list grievances.
i find myself where i am
and i don’t know how i got here.

i went out on a limb
and it snapped in pieces
and shattered my dreams.
now lies riddled in my past
and i leave it holy.

so many cigarettes smoked from
hotel room balconies
all alone.

spoons and blunts
like ghosts in my past.
does any of this really matter?
do yesterdays mean anything
more than time has passed?
and if what i think
i may have seen is true
will i be at peace when
the time comes
or will i long for a second chance
to finally and definitely make things right?

after all that has happened
should i think like this?

am i too old to think these thoughts?

searching for meaning is so cliché.

seeking peace of mind is so 2003.

now we pretend we have it
until we forget we don’t.

we live these lies
until they become reality
and the consequences take life
and strangle the possibilities
of what we could have been.
who have we become
and where did we leave
the us we once were?

if i could change the now
i don’t know if i would.
but i can’t so the question is futile.
a wasted thought process
used to kill time.
i’m hungry for innocents,
i’m fiending for the feeling
of having nothing to lose
and nothing to prove.

slick sleeved
and scared out of my mind
at that seattle holiday inn.
a broke airman
unsure of what lies around the bend.
i was so happy and sure of myself.
3 flights and 2 time zones later
here i am.

i smoke newports like
the filters hold answers
to these questions.
like the fiber glass
could give me peace.

as i age
and this cigarette
is smoked down to air,
mr. clock still spins.
if time is an illusion
then i’ll be damned
if that ain’t the best damn
magic trick i’ve ever seen.

in the auto-biography
that i call my 11 some odd years of writing,
there are huge holes in the story…
holes the size of trust…

trust that you will realize the truth.
and that truth is that
i can’t put into words
9/10th’s of my experiences

a camera’s film couldn’t contain
the scenes i’ve witnessed
and morgan freemen himself
couldn’t bring enough omnipotence
in his voice to narrate my yesterdays

i dream in flashes and feelings,
snapshots and extremes
i wear the snapshots
like cinderblock sneakers
as they drag me down
below the surface…

beyond the mask i wear,
past the “real me”
i played off to that pretty little thing
to make her think i was deep…

but not unstable…

and there i lie
wrapped in my insecurities like wool
using my hate for the little things
and love for everything as a pillow
in a mind better suited for a bulldozer…

ready to tear down
this pile of bricks i call life
it’s not prone to building,
wrecking balls can’t create…
they only know how to destroy

you can curl up with me there…
where scars mean more
then a healed wound
we can spoon
and whisper sweet depressing nothings to each other
about how nothing is gonna work out…

and if this ain’t rock bottom
i don’t know if i want to live long enough to see it

and countless don’t you hate it when’s
or don’t you hate people who’s
or don’t you hate…me

but i’ve learned long ago
how to hide these slippery slopes
how to think my way out
of that watery grave of self loathing

and if i know anything i know that
though you might think i’d be happier
getting it all off my chest.
that passing cancer
for the sole reason
of splitting the damage
will never end well.

you don’t want to hear my thoughts…
you want to hear your thoughts
spoken thru me
so i do that for you
its what i do…

i write about myself
and i tell you your story