Wednesday, October 9, 2024

Created Between a Hashtag and a Question Mark


 

I am a product of a barely 
readable keyboard assignment
generated between a # and a ? mark. 
I yearned for an ! point,
but the nerd enthusiasm 
was only around a 1/2 oz. of Red Bull.

Thought to be merely a squiggle 
in the grand scheme of artificial intelligence
(I disagreed),
my bone head gods never considered
by capitalizing F-E-M-A-L-E, they had
surrendered control.

Oh, they went to delete.
They went to the menu.
They went to the cloud.
For every effort, backspace,
and oh hell, it became evident
I was a gynoid with superpowers
that couldn’t be erased.

©Susie Clevenger 2024




Thursday, October 3, 2024

I Am as Normal as an Anomaly


 

They come in their pretty suits,
ties and buttons hung with degrees,
to bleed their diagnosis from 
a book of black and white
into my head trusting 
therapy and pills are my salvation.

There are whispers in the valley of my ears,
“She’s a jagged glass of broken mirrors 
that hears what doesn’t speak, and 
asks to go out to the courtyard
so she can gather shadows to place
in vases on her windowsill.” 

In the distance a radio grinds out tunes
in confetti spurts of voices that are supposed
to soothe my demons, but in truth only 
gives me images of cigarette ash spittle
falling on the tiles from burnout tongues.

 Why am I named patient in this Crazyatorium,
when those who picture frame their degrees
can’t find their way home if the GPS fails on their Tesla. 

Don’t they know a poet will never fit a diagnosis?
Hell, I can’t explain myself to myself.
Give me an image and I hear things.
Give me a list of words and I see things.
Am I insane? I don’t know.
I can just as easily write myself into appearing normal
as I can spill inky crow verses of anomaly. 

©Susie Clevenger 2024

Friday, September 20, 2024

Just Some Bad Poetry


Today is starfish crackers,
jumping off verbal cliffs,
and watching snowflakes
get stuck in their own glue.



Is it Friday, or Tuesday?
It’s hard to tell in the Texas hell
of waltzing with the devil’s politics
while wondering if sending your
television to a watery grave
will stop you from reaching
for another shot of tequila.



Yen or urge.
It’s funny the word
could mean money
or a strong desire
to eat a cookie.



I’m pretty sure I’m
an attempted cubist painting.
I live in a 3d reality,
but the artist ran
out of paint to cover
my geometry.

©Susie Clevenger 2024




 

Sunday, September 15, 2024

Pixelated in Time


Everything once seemed so clear,
details captured in the highest resolutions,
dreams emphatically, manically
positioned on pages we couldn’t touch,
but the world could steal for the price
of a stolen pass code.

You and I lived our romance believing 
Jesus in sliced toast would answer
every prayer if we only trusted
we could see what wasn’t there. 

Life was never flesh and blood.
It was love poems chasing a cursor,
the joy of a screen with a camera, intimacy 
as warm as the right emoji, a pink blush
of promises tomorrow we’d kiss.

We were fools writing our own fantasy,
sun bathers beneath a desk lamp making plans
in sand we believed would never shift.

It all ended when messages became ghosts,
and bubbles no longer formed words,
I don’t know which one of us disappeared first.
Perhaps it was me…

In the backspace and erase,
bold face upper case love chase,
the joy of fireworks turned cold
when I finally admitted you were
only a man with an internet address. 

©Susie Clevenger 2024

I've seen a few Catfish episodes. Don't judge :)



 

Thursday, August 29, 2024

Don't Break an Aardvark's Glass


The tedium of walking on tippy toes
so the offensive won’t be offended
is not a gift I possess. 

Oh, I can appear cuddly with the obtuse,
keep my eyes silent, my face a gentle petulant,
but too often they seem to forget boorish 
will break the glass of jolly I have so patiently
kept half full. 

Ignorance should never ring the doorbell
of my dark humor, or test the shellac
on my carefully manicured mood. 

I love antiques, but have no desire
to live the crinoline politics of men
who are so fragile they succumb 
to vapors at the thought of progress.

All the cosplaying Captain Fred Waterford’s 
whine when I remind them Fred’s story
didn’t end well. 

©Susie Clevenger 2024

"We only wanted to make the world better.
 Better never means better for everyone.
 It always means worse for some."
— Fred Waterford

Captain Fred Waterford is a character
in the book, Handmaid's Tale
 by Margaret Atwood. 



 

Wednesday, August 21, 2024

Blame It On Stephen King



I spill ink crow tarot tracks

across a page trying to

write lemons into lemonade,

but there’s nothing pretty

in a journal of bruises.


Among sticks and stones,

broken bones, and vinegared potions

of all’s sunny in hell my Gothic Care Bear

muses keep quoting Stephen King,

“The Devil’s voice is sweet to hear.”


My verses are cruel, yet somehow delightful.

I can be the beast in beautiful, knife in a heart

when my humor is the syrup of sharp teeth.

I don’t play well with faux anything. 


I get more thrills in celebrating Halloween

than a sugar-coated Valentine’s Day 

filled with undying confessions of love

shopped from a grocery store aisle. 


Any way you shuffle me I will always rise with black feathers.

Isn’t it good to be honest? 


©Susie Clevenger 2024

Shay's Word Garden Word List ~ Full Dark, No Stars



Friday, August 16, 2024

Dixie Cups Held the Last Kool-Aid


Dixie cups lay reduced to red slime
mixed with the DNA of lips
who had drunk Kool-Aid while the world burned. 

Silence speaks in steam and stench.
Bony charred hands still clutch their book of rules,
their quibble phones, and black pearls 
identifying them as members of Fanatic Denial. 

Barely able to walk, shaken by the reality
I am still breathing, my eyes search for life
in the gasps of smoke pulsating around me.

Through the gray I watch human forms
appear in a ghostly resurrection of life
I first assumed were hallucinations.

As they walk forward, I see one of them,
a young woman carrying a journal. 
So many things storm my mind,
one being had I survived hell only to
be met with the foul text of failed ordinances. 

Prepared to speak every no in me, I stop
as the group keeps to its goal of encroaching
on the toasted bit of earth I believe
will be my final battleground.
Without an introduction the young woman
opens the journal and begins to read.

“According to the Magpie Record, The Lucid Tablets
now becomes the order of law. Article 1 of 
The Value of Truth requires every survivor
to go through gaslight deprogramming.” 

Who, how, where rests on the tip of my tongue
as I pinch my right arm to verify I’m not dreaming.

Seeing my distress the young woman 
places her hand on my wrist and says,
“I’m sorry to be so abrupt. We are standing on an ending
while a new beginning undulates beneath our feet.

Not knowing whether to cry or hug her, I break the ice
from my voice to say, “Miss, I don’t know who you are,
but I was on the Magpie Council when the Record,
and the Lucid Tablets were written. 
In the time of the Great Lie the Secret Scribes
oversaw housing the Council’s work
for the Reformation of Freedom in a location
that was known only by them. 

Because of security I never saw the journal
you are holding in your hands, but I know every word
that is written in it. 

Let me introduce myself to you, “I am Magpie Agent 5. 

©Susie Clevenger 2024