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  April 2012
volume 9 number 1
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  Don Kingfisher Campbell
  Charles Claymore
  William Harris
  Dawnell Harrison
  Dan Hedges
  Kathleen Kenny
  Austin McCarron
  David McIntire
  Mephistopheles
  Angel Uriel Perales
  Raindog
  Rishan Singh
  Jan Steckel
  Annette Sugden
  Jason Visconti
  Cindy Weinstein
  Gianna Wurzl
 
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Charles Claymore
April 2012
   

 

bio


art by leigh white

    Charles Claymore is, continues to be, or has been, some of the following things: a circus trainer, animal tamer, cook, traveler, librarian, dj, artist, landscaper, archer, husband, counterman, alchemist, musician, hunter, flatworker, wing forward, racer, student, fling, pain in the ass, priest, and poet. He has written songs about people and vice versa.
    He lives, and quite thoroughly enjoys, LA.

   

 

Somnia

The river bends to the west and my hand shifts the rudder accordingly. The mantra continues unabated as the denizens of the night grow bolder in their pleas to be heard. Their warnings and cries for kindred companions bring solace with a tinge of melancholy as I sink deeper into my reverie. Ahh, the stars. "All magnitudes and many," as the poet says. Humidity and a slight chill prompt a refill of my mug from the goatskin bag. I tie up the rudder as the way ahead is now straight for a while, cup the brew with both hands and feel the carbonation lightly spray my face. Solitude has so many gifts to bear. Solitude, the pack mule of the gods, is a tough, resilient, and slow-moving companion. It has a will of its own. The aroma of the beverage carries memories from both sides of that dingy corner bar in the center of a city known for underground music, cheap swill, and even cheaper acquaintances. This cauldron of mold, sweat, smoke, vomit, booze, and poverty has a special scent like no other. Greasy moans from the women’s room can only be drowned out by over-amplified guitars, bass, and drums. Could be someone I know all too well this time. Could be the stranger from my nuptial bed. Could be my closest, but not my best, friend. Could be jealousy personified. Could be high time to down this libation in one long pull as the night sky gazes down on me searching for my well-concealed joy. The hands that used to be mine mix and shake and pour and make change and refill glasses of various shapes as the music spreads its cloak over the masks locked behind the door along with a prematurely failed heart I never could reach and never will. And yet my eyes never close. These eyes never close. Always open for bus-i-ness. Lids as cover; lids as decoration. Or not. They never close...

copyright 2012 Charles Claymore