John Grey - Two Pieces

1. SITUATIONAL

In the sky,

the aerial attack 

of you with him –

 

something shiny on the 

avenue —

you see he could not be 

but 

by his glance,

called woman

can you emerge completely unharmed? 

lie back 

shadows are swaying

dust is on the rise

the air will tear your heart out

don’t you feel it beginning? 

glance hissing 

something other than

happy ever after –

gripping a piece of paper,

staring deep into it –

just a poem

and I’m no longer married to it –

I’m disappearing –

I’ve been taken in –

by a tunnel,

by a lake,

by poison,

by the professor of astronomy

who raises his eyebrows

in the direction of the stars –

yet there’s a presence in me

that pulling together

all sides –

I remember 

rubble and hissing

and this great urge to remain.

***

2. A WOULD-BE LOTHARIO

always a little on fire 

and my loins to answer to

always seeing another's eyes, nose, mouth –

   anything that can spill,

but never the backbones of real life,

arranged in shapes and years,

enough to have me buzzing,

thumping like a bumpy train ride –

and then there’s love –

body parts

by the most languorous indirect route –

forget about it!

once again,

the chatter of nearby flesh

is a church under construction,

crackling thighs and dresses

that could split anywhere,

creatures of imperfect camouflage,

I’m as moist

as a dandelion in April –

(crowds of people,

dry and vapid,

shifting chairs)

and then there’s the face 

in the darkest thunderhead,

the double agent,

the glance taking leave of its liquid,

with gargoyles in suits

swapping fingers –

I’m trying to get out from under my history,

gleaming through whichever door opens,

hiding my layers of ghosts,

looking for words to defend the stain on my pants,

holding myself for the moment

but eager to let go

disguising the past,

building up a reservoir of suggestions,

milling in a world of shapes

and expressions,

hoping something forgotten

will suddenly remember me,

each drop of alcohol

leading me by the shaky hand,

looking for the one who knows no better,

somewhere in this room,

a storm in a vacuum,

plucking at my pockets,

smoothing my knuckles like they’re brass,

wishing I was Jesus

or whoever else is worshiped in these parts –

fellow workers look on

as all I need is just one lapse in concentration,

only the one,

a meet-cute fulfilling a day-dream,

masking my roots,

egged on by phantoms in the beer,

Don Juan legends,

raising myself like a statue

then severing myself from the block –

ah, look at her,

skin the color of  someone on a copper coin,

hope I don’t spill on myself

as I spin her hair like webs,

steal her moments from all other men –

this is my country,

and it’s taking the orders I give it –

two lives I lead,

the shy and the confident,

the first innate,

the second alien

with no planet to go home to.

John Grey - THE HEART’S STORY

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is round and ronvrx eight to twelve ounces in m'omfif finis well-sulvdivitled rij'.hl and lelt.

A iransverse constriction suhdivideseach half ol the organ. The right auricle Ls larger than the It'll.

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raniuiiin llu-lv- arr moulhs ol small veins. Hit' uitrii nk> ti-utrit alar [I/WHIH,? is the larf.iovrtl uf I'nmmunicdtion iH'twtvn Iht'iturule (md thi> vein rick'. 1'hi' lOini'x mai|;iii nf

llu* 1'n^lai hum iiilw is atlai hed to tin1 wall nf llic vein of tht- right tonuia whost- com ave

margin is lost tin tht' wall o!" tlu* iiurii le. The I'itlti• i^f t'lifh^ian ('reveiits regurgilalnin

»l hloiul. The fi"-si I'fH/is is an oval di'pri'ssiiin mrrcsiHinilmg to Uie situation

D| Ihi1 foramen ovale in Ihe (t'tus. Tin- tulvn \iluni laavr, which I <iwer

thought most diblincl in the heart!, of quadrupeds, dint Is Wi>od from Ihe

Mi;>t'ri[>r irtcii toward the uunmlii i't'itlm iiltir opening, ['he

posterior wall of the rif'lil ventricle i«. lormed In

the partition N'tween two ventricles; its

transverse section prest-nii

a scmi-luriiir outline

and extends to

the apex ol

Ihe

heart.

John Grey - Three Poems

 John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review and Connecticut River Review. Latest book, “Leaves On Pages” is available through Amazon.

***

MY FALL

strange how

having freed myself of all weight

i have come back to earth

i expected

at least 

a trip to the clouds

the moon

or even the stars

but away went Sheila

off came the job

& i spat out family

like busted teeth

but i then dropped 

at twice the speed of gravity

hit the ground 

with a resounding

what next?

strange how

i picked myself up

& as far as i got

was only 5’11

***

WRITING MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY

i

was born 

in an attempt

to free myself 

from the entanglement

of an open bloody wound

to separate being

into yours & mine

trembling just enough

to inform my body parts

that i’d arrived

while clinging 

to whatever was near at hand

& doing everything I could

for the first time –

i filled birth to the brim

then spent the next sixth months

between warm expectation

& uncertainty 

taking life upon myself

while being little understood -

in case i remembered none of this

i meticulously took notes

***

NO GHOST

i don’t believe in ghosts

& even if i did

i wouldn’t believe in your ghost

as it

flits between rooms

up & down corridors

wails & moans

from afar 

& up close

the scenes you make

are never less than permanent

no wispiness

no see-through

so this is no ghost

& this is not you

what i’m seeing is not there

& even if it was

that wouldn’t justify

it being here 

John Grey - Andy And Maria

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Hawaii Pacific Review, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Blueline, Willard and Maple and Clade Song.

John Grey - Three Poems

1 GRADUATE Z

A girl from Missouri

blooms in the bowers,

the showers.  I like the

wind’s preposterous violincello,

the flying sequoias 

coursing through the park.

I watch the medicine man

in snow shoes

lassoing dawn stars.

Like shadows trumpeting,

nights breed fireflies 

in a wild-cat town,

a whirling fantasy of candles,

alien & vain.

Sunset’s harp-sound

the white quartz shine

& blind man song

humming root  dim fields of ringing bells.

A new graduate  

lean as wheat 

her gratification vast & weird.   

I could shag & twist

and come out tangled & awry.

But the skies

are the very whimsy

and their sails, bark temples

***

2 END GAME

the list of service personnel

sober rejoicing    addressed to press 

& radio   an official announcement

followed by ruthless aggression & brutality

for several days   the issuance

broadcast a communique    reliable

   information

that this is true

aroused speculation 

encountered little or no resistance

various scattered pockets

secured free passage

possibly loaded with troops

aside from actual operations

require vast amounts of equipment

& will no longer complain

about being orphans

able to see from a foxhole

a spokesman on the way out

***

3 JEALOUSY

very pretty girl stood at the edge

accidentally fired indoors.

with the kids that still thought

in terms of 

the next playing field

maybe they want the heart-song for themselves.

         &  now that stitched emissary

pride shrunk down to trembling,

she smiled warmly, sweetly,

graveyards feast on dead voices. Tombstones can't wait to

weep  for Hemingway or O'Hara or even Tennessee Williams.

as eyes would have it,

            she figured if you want someone to make you omelets

bats & balls must be left behind

become the softest option

broken bedroom windows were forgotten.

the act ends with two encores

what's hummed on the way home

& then a distant crash of glass