Other Poems by:

Ajay Clark

I love hating cliches

echoes tenderly utter  
throughout my forebrain,
ig niting a collision synapse of  
anguish 
and
pain.
 
Blackouts.
Meltdowns.
A lobotomy would
turn this frown 
right side down.
 
She says now:
“lets adopt the cliche:
it could always be worse”
 
I say:
“I think that’s a bang-up idea!
jot it down
and stuff it with my
cigarettes 
in your purse.”
 
I recall watching
124
movies in her hospital room,
wondering 
if on 
one
of those 
124
nights she would 
“Meet her doom.”
 
A shinny hospital cart comes 
screeching in,
it comes to take her
and
my 
fragile heart once again.
Shoelace I.V.’s replace where veins
ought to be,
 
children’s minds
might be blind
 
but my eyes saw just fine.
 
And
she says now:
 
“It could have always been worse” 
and
I chuckle to myself.

My Madness March at Midnight

  1
Sidewalks transpose themselves in their quiet, approachable, sophistication.
An old war buck lapses his privately owned memoire, marched sidewalk.
His light heavily sagging, blue eyes, beseech mine.
With an almost orderly movement,
his hand slips out of his pocket.
A ghost of a hand drops a rusted in tears anchor that resembles a Purple Heart.
He stops.
Then, he speaks.
He asks:
“Private... have you met a courageously naive solider on your pilgrimage tonight?”
My arrogance invests thousands in my tongue,
but my mouth ejaculates a simple
“yes. I have indeed, sir.”
I proceed to tell him my other interruption.
 
“You see good sir, my concrete path paralleled a politician’s of some importance, 
early this night.
He must have been orphaned from heaven,
his manner was not meek,
but his wreck of a mind was militant
and
was motivated by greed.
Then coming from the opposite side of the street 
I saw a valiant solider of the generations, 
from
and 
to come,
walking.
He slowed down 
and
picked up an infant child, from the womb of time.
The infants soul had been separated from his anatomy.
The solider started to pelt the politician as they came closer together with
bomb shells of anguish 
and
pain.
The explosion, on impact to the politician’s body,
 released the feeling of death by war.
Though to my surprise, the fraudulent politician did not cower. 
It was as if he was incapable of feeling.
The solider stopped 
and 
pivoted towards me,
his eyes fluttered across the street of life 
and
death,
to set focus on mine.
Within that brief second, I was jolted into the past,
into a battle.
        2
Bombs sweetly raged in tune,
screams fell on deaf and lost ears,
my existence in this battle...was unknown.
I existed outside the normal rules of time.
I was invisible to both of the peasant workhorse’s uniforms.
I was an onlooker-
in a past war-
in a past moment-
my head took a fearful stroll down my body,
I seemed to be outfitted in an erratic uniform.
Often red with cold blood,
occasionally with its illogical army green.
(If the military would just go to red B.D.U.’s, they’d save a lot in laundry bills.)
 
5 or so feet away from my position in this politically created hell
I saw a man ritually attempting to pick up his
“less to manufacture weapon”
but he couldn’t complete his trained itinerary.
The obsolete fog withered away like the life of the men on the napalm insulated soil... 
past the point of help.
The solider was sterile from the gunpowder haze.
I could see his set back.
He lacked the five slender appendages and the tilted square of flesh
that so rightfully belonged there.   
His face 
and
his spastic body jolted, brewing shock, 
he was unaware of his enigma.
A combat medic grabbed him by his shirt
and 
properly treated his senators vote for war.
I cringed at the sight of the homeless blood 
and
flesh.
I turn to cover my mouth.
My eyelids squeezed as tight as the other would let it go without overlapping each other.
                                 3 
I peeked open, like when I was a child waiting for a surprise, 
to find that my environment had altered,
my feet now sat in an un-content village,
I stood
over looking the burnt fleshy body of the vile communist leader of the savage rebels...
His hammer and sickle logoed diapers ignited briskly.
His age could not surpass one year of life on this planet.
But according to our self proclaimed heroic politicians with their ivy league educations, 
this rebel has obtained the 
ambition(understandable),
and
ammunition(that we sold them)
to assassinate with worth.
In his two miniature fluttering hands he holds enough competence to kill with the best,
though this rebel’s communist rotted mind is looking for one thing...
His mothers breast.
In the competition of 
hunger
vs.
murder
hunger wins.
My pupil’s scan up the mothers torso, to where her head should be assembled, 
but due to our “smart bombs”... they thought it would be wise to have 
this communist lack the ability to 
smile 
and 
look into her child’s eyes.(what will they think of next?)
The combat medic grabs the child’s extra crispy body 
and
realize in a few seconds that the child’s burns won’t allow him to live through the night.
The combat medic’s president would be proud that there is one less person in this world 
who does not believe in the power and freedom to live in democracatic country. 
 
The solider stands alone now and,
 says:
“for God and Country...right?” questioning himself.
 “God has to be happy with what I’ve done... right?”
The solider is on the verge of a mental breakdown now.
“I mean!.....it, it is not okay to murder one man....but...but if we murder this way 
it is classified as “foreign policy”....and God says to “follow the law of the land!!!”
 
The solider than considered and found comfort in the fact that at least when he got home 
from all of this madness he would have all those people there to tarnish the names 
and honor of the men who died for these peoples “freedom”.
And 
at that sight my vision,
it, abruptly ended.
                      4
I was back on the sidewalk,
I saw that valiant solider.
He was wearing the uniform of:
every solider,
from EVERY country,
from EVERY race,
from EVERY time,
from EVERY single war every fought,
with the child melting away in his hands and arms.
He passed the politician.
Their passing only lasted a moment, for me, an onlooker.
But for the:
soldiers
and 
the innocent civilians...
It will last for eternity.
No amount of peace relays will fix our hunger to kill one another.
Just give us an excuse for war...
We’ll call it a reason for just cause.


Full Benefits

   1
A silent snap in the lumber, 
alerts the foremen of 
the tranquil sincerity of being utterly defeated by broken workers.
Their problems lay with the memory.
The foremen plans to update the latest memory erasing medical procedures to
the health plan in the fall.  
 
One worker,
takes his break with crooked grace,
lights his cigarette, while accidentally smiling,
as he inhales a cigarette with one side of his mouth,
the other side sings along with Bob Seger, in the hazy background.
His over worked hands shake with shame and pride, 
fingers regret the touch of the hammer,
but tremble before the memory of her.
The memory is not prejudice in its choice of moments to record.
Everything,
with the snap of a synapse is brought back to life.
 
                               2
On his way home to his tauntingly empty home he sees a church bulletin board,
it reads
“anything worth a memory is worth the experience.”
He sees the sign.
Inhales his thoughts about the quote...
Reaffirms his thoughts on the matter...
Then exhales them back to God while ashing his cigarette with his middle finger.
 
He finds no shelter in sheets painted with her lost hairs 
and
distinct smell.
Or in the arms of new women who all say the same thing:
“your broken!”
And
he says:
“darling, no amount of scotch tape can fix these hands or these memories...
wish they could though, try back next fall when I have full benefits.”

Prison Break (A novella)

I’m nervous about semi-colons,
I’m terrified of periods.
I try to navigate my poems to the thoughts of their skin.
Though, I wrote about each one with the same desperate pen.
I’m ashamed.
So ashamed, that I lost my will to die.
Though, I still abuse exaggerated sighs.
Those things lost meaning so long ago.
So I’ll bury my head in this book.
Each line is a spoon,
each page a tunnel,
both covers a gate, I’m leading my own little escape.
 
Pencil is what I write in now.
I’m scared, so scared. 
Aren’t we all?
God I hope so.
But I still my have ten fingers and toes.
I’m part of the problem...we all are.
And it’s so sad.
But I’ve grown sullen and I’m tired of feeling this bad.
I can’t watch any longer, not even one brief look.
So I’ll bury my head in this book.
Each word a shovel,
each character a tunnel,
each chapter a gate,
more solitude in my own little escape.
 
Some would say, I’ve lost hope.
I’m so disgusted with humanity that most of the time 
dead mens words are the only thing that help me cope.
I feel alone
I feel disappointed
but  with every sunrise I awaken excited.
Excited, that maybe this day, “all will be okay”
I force down tablespoon after tablespoon of that 
after every morosely nauseating encounter with another..
I wonder where I would be with out the art of others?
Trapped.
A prisoner.
In their world of malevolence.
Screaming whispers of plangency to myself.
But I’ll stay hidden here, in my cranny and nook. 
As I bury my head in this beautiful book.
Each tangent a pick,
each tail a rope,
each another gate,
a comforting colloquy in my own little escape.

A Phrase, For Our Generation

We will 
drink 
until 3 am with reason,
We will 
Write until the sun comes up
and
sulk until the sun goes down.
We will
brush our teeth with meaning to remove tobacco stains,
We will
talk about “life” until our lungs retire for the night,
We’ll be the unknown “artists” of OUR time.
 
We will      
wash our hands of love
and
We will 
try to marry dead mens words.
We will
wear out the muscles in our face from
frowns
till all we have left to flex are
smiles.
We’ll be the unknown “artists” of OUR time.
 
We will 
develop our own religion.
Our own morales and values,
based on 
INDIVIDUALITY 
and
not guilt based morality.
We will 
share the 
feeling 
of playing a song for someone
on a beautifully simple, rainy day,
and
they will like it.
And
we will feel like we’ve made a connection through someone else’s sorrow, 
and in that moment we will feel completely alive.  We’ll be the unknown “artists” of OUR time.
 
We will 
LOVE UNCONDITIONALLY,
ache for accomplishment, 
realize what is feasible,
and
still dream of accomplishment,
not in a monetary sense
but,
in a spiritual sense.
We’ll be the unknown “artists” of OUR time.


Pez candy... works miracles

                1.
social awkwardness...
My definition,
as it pertains to me:
my wobbly voice,
on a high rise who stumbles 
and 
p
l
u
m
e
t
s
to his death.
      2. 
The joint-chiefs of staffs of my brain have invoked deaf- con 5.
My military 
has been properly trained in being weirdly 
and
pointlessly defensive,
when backed into a corner,
I reach for my sharp, blood drawing, pointy pointless hammer in my
tool box of metaphors.
      3. 
My eyes have to be my best feature,
they sit quietly with their hands folded
and 
have not let me down...yet.
 
The doctors ask:
“are you unhappy?”
“Irritable?”
“Do you have mood swings?”
“Do you feel shy in social situations?”
“Basically, do you feel hopeless?”
As they sit back 
and 
push their glasses higher up on their nose 
and 
start squinting their eyes 
and their pens, as if I’m about to revel the inner nature of
me.
 
I answer yes
to all of the above.
They ask me if I want pills to make me feel “normal”?
 
I decline .
I say.     
“I like the pain.”
“It gives me something to bitch and complain about”
and 
then I think to myself that sounds too good to be true. 
Painless life. 

**Copyright 2007 Ajay Clark, all rights reserved
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