Ink and Pad Women

"Relax, " said the night man, "We are programmed to receive

You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave"

Hotel California ~ The Eagles

There are too many waitresses

in hell, the beck and call, never seem

to get it right, tenders of a menu

that eyes read, but never accept,

“It is what it is.”

It’s not the ladies’ fault the greasy

walls wreak of rehab, and gluttony.

Everyone who takes a seat at a half wiped

table is nursing an addiction of some sort.

Truck stops at the end of the line

rarely see diamond desperados, because

those types like to spend their plastic

where their Prada doesn’t stick to the chair. 

None of the ink and pad women volunteered

to be called the queens of bad examples or

should I say calloused assumptions. 

Each one has a dream, a heart, a hope,

a circumstance they want out of, and

an eye on a view that isn’t in the shadow

of the Hotel California. 

©Susie Clevenger 2024

Shay's Word Garden Word List ~ Warren Zevon

 

Concrete Flesh of Morning

 

Photography by Artist, Jasper James

I am the face of the city,

eyes pressed into morning

holding my breath.

 

Alarm clocks pound migraine drums

through my head to announce the rise and whine

of humans crawling into a new day.

 

With a bold broom

sunlight sweeps my doorsteps

into moldy gray glitter so

caffeinated souls can see

what they can’t feel.

 

Vehicles begin their rumble crawl

in asthmatic gasps of engine and oil

through streets hatching across my ribs.

 

In the widening iris of hours

I exhale yesterday’s weight

and breathe in the hope

today’s politics won’t cripple me.

 ©Susie Clevenger 2021

The Sunday Muse #168

 

 

 

Scissoring the Wind

 

Out on the steel of bright blue sky

I carry the moon on my lips.

 

I dance between my light and dark,

hold sunshine on my fingertips

while my toes search shadows.

 

Freedom is taking scissors to the wind

to cut my own map before I’m caught

in the choice of someone else’s direction.

©Susie Clevenger 2021

The Sunday Muse #158

 

 

One Night at a Time

His feet are planted in the blues.

With a whole lot of life in his face,

and scars on his guitar strings

he pours truth into beer bottles

back lighting bar dreams.

You can take a song from the street,

but you can’t take the street out of the music

when notes traffic every alley of pain

through a voice scuffed by tread marks.

In the dim light of bodies chasing escape

he sings solo to a choir too whisky throated

to trust the chorus.

He’s been where they are…He’s left where they’re going.

©Susie Clevenger 2020

The Sunday Muse #104

Pray Answers Won't Smell Like Alcohol

Photo: Alexander Krivitskiy

I’m over there in the corner

of a dive bar, quiet tongued

and soul eyed.

I pinch my arm to bruise present

on my skin, but thirty years a go

blinks beneath neon.

Reluctant, terrified, sober as a crucifix,

I walk questions to an empty chair

and pray answers won’t smell like alcohol.

Silence beads little droplets on my skin

until I’m feverish enough to gurgle who

from my throat in a semblance of language.

Frowning she places a finger on my lips

and speaks, Don’t ask…I just came

to learn how I can change my future.

©Susie Clevenger 2018

Written from some tough news I recently received. No, it isn't me or my family.

 Real Toads ~ Bits of Inspiration ~ Doppleganger