Poetry By Shannon Clem

      ajgarrison3 CC




Can Jesus Count To 10th Street?

Antacid birds swallow
health and explode.
On our street--

Kids ride deathbikes.
Skin lines steel knees.

Knitting needle spokes
on stolen wheels
power-move steering.

Go nowhere fast--
And slow on lowrider rims.

Scent-amalgamations of
curried lentils, meth, blackened
chicken and fabric softener--

Perfume neighborhood hijinks.

Cats got snitches' tongues
kissing too young—never-telling--
On porch swings.

See sawed-off shotgun weddings
welcome merciful abortions.

Junkies in wombs. Pushers in utero.
Mold spores absorbed by kitty litter.
Hope—like a tripwire.





Bye & Bye

When we lived
on 10th and Punk

all the rats and mice
evicted from

the Bye and Bye
came to live
at our house.

Like most things,
I had to drink extra
to not care about them.

One night
wejustcouldn't
takeitanymore.

We set up
an awful trap.

Sooner than expected,
we heard squeaking
in the dark.

There she was,
plump and confused--

Her babies waiting
too closely--
Stunned.

I sometimes still
have nightmares
of

the desperate clicking
and screeching
of

Death, closing over--
While life tries.
Our love was
like that
dying mother rat.

Had no chance
to reach out
to its young--

Swirling
uncharacteristically slow.
Sniffing at her--

Wondering how and why
peanut butter

just became some lame
garrote-guillotine; forcing

someone to come rescue--
Or finish her off.

And you were always
too kind
to allow suffering.

So, I guess,
thanks for breaking
our love's neck.


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Shannon Clem is a chronically ill & neurodivergent recluse residing with their progeny in California. They have pieces published or forthcoming in Our Own Coordinates (Sìdhe Press, 2023), The Hunger, Bullshit Lit, Versification Zine, warning lines, MIDLVLMAG, Rat's Ass Review, & elsewhere. They love music & comedy. @shannontantrum