black coffee pounding
def beats through my veins
a jazz rift drifts like dead flies
against the newscaster’s sand
blasted voice scratching head
lines across my brain.

senior prison officers pimping
passes for pussy, didn’t see
that one coming, male guards
female prisoners human beings
in denial of their base instincts.

ann abramovich knows the score:
‘i wish u peace, love, and health.
blah, blah, blah, fuck that shit. i
wish u sex, alcohol, bare orgasms
and hope u win the fucking lottery,’
she says.

refill please…

my coffee’s cold like countess
tolstoy’s love for pugachev, ditch the
news and dream dreams instead
sorry love no cream keep it strong
bitter, and black like these sound
bites on a sunday afternoon.

Her breasts bounce
in step with each
step on the step
master they bounce,

Like over-filled
water balloons
on a string, they
bounce.

Sweat drips slowly
between her crevasse

We lick our lips
like on a hot summer
day, standing before
a merchant’s stall
of freshly cut water
melons, full of thirst

She steps.

Process notes: I was looking for inspiration this morning.  I saw the word desire and thought why not write a series of poems about our base emotions.  Leaning back in my chair, I started to day dream about desire and immediately I thought about the lady I saw in the gym the other day working out on the cross trainer.  She was wearing a very low-cut white tank top that concealed very little.  Now I would be less than truthful if I said I didn’t steal a peak like every other guy that was there at the time.

It isn’t nice
to be naked.
Two live wires,

hot, exposed,

to dangerous
to touch together
under the night sky.

Dark, unyielding,
no moon to light
the way toward
salvation and bliss.

A kiss delivered
on velvet lips
awaiting the
morning dew

to deliver parched
lips from a thousand
nights of thirst.

Process notes: I wrote this piece after reading a poem by Langston Hughes called March Moon.  In it, the moon is naked after having been undressed by the wind.  Hughes ends the poem with a question:

Don’t you know
It isn’t nice to be naked?

I turned the question into a statement.  This made me think about how some people are ashamed to be naked and prefer to hide their nakedness from their lover under the cover of darkness or dimmed lights.

P.S.  I picked up the idea of adding a short commentary behind the inspiration of my poems from Dana Guthrie Martin over at her blog My Gorgeous Somewhere. Thanks Dana.

III.  in search of peace

I searched for peace
but could not find her
on the troubled city streets

I climbed a mountain seeking
peace in the clouds, but saw only
gun-smoke rising from heated barrels

I listened by a babbling brook for
peace’s soothing song, but heard only
the drowning voices of the thirsty cry

I sort solace in the desert sands
but found only the broken bodies of
those who died for the promise of peace

I hid in the jungle seeking peace amongst
the humid leaves, but found only the guerrillas
in the mist fighting for freedom, not peace

And now I lay my head down to sleep
and pray to God my soul finds peace
if not here, then somewhere beyond the grave

i want to know
the story written
in her sad, dark eyes

i wonder why
she cries at night,
her sad, dark eyes

never smile, but
captivate, trance like
pleading, needing

sad, dark eyes i
want to know the
pain they hide and hold

the softest touch
the tilted chin
the lightest kiss

to ease the pain
away, her sad
dark eyes follow me

burned forever in
my mind, i carry her
burden across time

Got my Lucky Strikes and Jesus doll
Pinup girl in yellow shorts pouts love
Through lips red as the dawn sky on
The fourth of July, I’m ready to roll

Cowboy hat no Texan to stand Jack
Daniels and Coke drank separate like
a man, I hitch a ride south on ninety nine
Door opens and slams

Yellow convertible, white walled tires
Saxophone screaming from the radio
Flamingo dancer hangs from the rear
View mirror dancing in the wind, a

Floating angel desperate to land a pair
Of aces so her luck will turn and she can
Sip champagne on the Geyhound headed
East to see the Jersey Shore her home

The Boss made famous in a song and she
Longs to feel the eyes walk all over her
As she struts across the sand sporting her
West Coast tan

A train about to take the underpass, gives
A warning whistle, the saxophone dies
Slowly drifting into the desert night, I tip my
Head back, light another cigarette and sigh

Another page churned, another love spurned
Bloodstained keys lay to rest, eager to feel
The pounding of fingertips, the caress of flesh
A soul laid bare on white sheets

The touch of a woman’s hand on my shoulder
Beckons, the night awaits, saxophone echoes
From the rooftops, the city moans;

She moans.

I moan.

We moan.

Silence…

she sits at the back
of Starbucks and stares
at the door, poised in
anticipation of her prey

she does not blink
she does not drink

her coffee goes cold

she could be an exhibit
in Madame Tussauds
i want to touch her
to see if she is real, but
i dare not move

my coffee goes cold

Hey folks, hop on over to the Pen Me a Poem website to read an interview of me conducted by Edward Beaman-Hodgkiss, poet and freelance writer.  And feel free to leave a comment after you’ve read the interview and pass the link on to others who might enjoy reading it.

peace and love,

clay

Before there was Nike, there was Dante:

‘Now you must needs,’ my teacher said, ‘shake off
your wonted indolence.  No fame is won
beneath the quilt or sunk in feather cushions.’

‘Whoever, fameless, wastes his life away,
leaves of himself no greater mark on earth
than smoke in air or froth upon a wave.’

‘I offer you,’ he said to me, ‘no answer
save “just do it”.  Noble demands, by right,
deserve the consequence of silent deeds.’

-Dante, Inferno, Cantos 24

please mr prophet man
tell me what is true
I hear some say religion
is good for you

but i’m not sure
when in god’s name
they tell me bombs
and bullets are the cure

“What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.” (T.S. Eliot, The Gidding, V)

We bow our heads in quiet
servitude to the dust, our lips
form prayers to gods, who
long ago abandoned us.

We huddle together in a candle
lit room; frankincense, jasmine,
and sage, form  broken patterns
in the air; amethyst rock, lapis lazuli,
crystal quartz, and rose guard the
four corners of the room, silent
sentries and witnesses to our gloom.

Here we try to replicate
perfect peace profound, but
how will we ever know peace
when we can’t recall her name?

We close our eyes to quiet our
minds and search for peace
against the turmoil of the day.
Eirene begins to cry, she knows
we will not find her here
among these relics of the past.

The guru takes the mic.
He’s seen the wondrous light
and has come to lead us there
to death’s dream kingdom.

His words, mellow and sweet,
strokes the back of our necks
and lulls us to sleep, and deeper
we travel to death’s other kingdom.

The guru licks his lips and passes
the offering plate around, let us pray!
The guru smiles, he knows we will
not see the light, how can we when
our eyes are closed?

The soldiers tossed the chicken
Bones, they didn’t like his politics.
Strung him up on a cross and
Gambled for his ragged clothes.

Cancel the Second Coming,
The church has decreed, no
Heroic figure can save us
From our avarice, lust, and greed.

The twisted logic of confrontation
And violence are meant to be
Suffered in silence, let the ruthless
Gain at the expense of the poor,
It’s what free markets were designed for.

The bishop takes the podium:
“Stand together,” he shouts, “Or
We shall all hang separately in an
Economic bubble we can’t sustain.”

A dictator disposed in the gallows,
They didn’t like his politics.
Strung a noose around his neck
Streamed his pictures across the Internet.

A mobile phone exposes the insanity
Of our tricked out humanity, evolved.