JOHN GREY

JOHN GREY

You Cannot Escape

That’s why you stumbled and fell;

the echoes of old lovers and

the Geiger counters,

the metals outside.

The fence is as far as you can go.

The only antidote, a gun to the temple.

Ah, the peach blossom opens

like a penthouse suite.

But the pretty picture is mere Chimera.

The side of the road.

The walk is never close enough.

All growth is a past belief.

An ancient geography.

You break off like an iceberg.

Then and always the lab is open.

There isn't anything swifter than a needle drawing blood.

No one is thankful.

These scrapes create a great abyss  and leave.

They are now the cross within that glassy spotlight.

They go down to the

mother's eyes.

to inhabit, beautiful futures

to leap far onto the rooftops or the sky.

Life Story

One

I come home

unwanted

from Anna’s digs

with nothing on my mind

not even food or drink

blowing up Thayer Street

like a dirty postcard

midnight blind

and words over everything like mustard

holding out for somebody I knew

like a car drifting by

or a guy playing saxophone for spare change

but no eyes

and little in the way of ears

heading for some rooming-house

off the main bohemian drag

stuck with my own doings

in a close-up city

invaded and appropriated

strolling by brownstones

all senses reaching for the fire escapes

on a street that should be

a ladder to heaven

outraged that it isn’t

by the gravesite of a famous man

more than would be given the most wretched

like I was back in the middle ages

thinking of home

that wretched consolation

if I could ever come up with enough

to pay for the flight

but here’s my asylum

I’m lulled by my key in the door

up the first flight

my Puerto Rican neighbor invites me in to smoke a joint

I’d rather puff on the traffic

the songs

or trade looks with the two gay guys

who hump half the night

or the old man who, rumor has it,

used to be gangster

or the cockroaches

that are always up for anything

Life Story

Two

but, best of all, myself,

the bed, the skylight,

the bareness,

how, with one look around the room,

I can see everything I have in the world

table

chair

books

records

a Bible

who else can say that

who else can give it that old 360 degrees

and not see misery

sure, I’d love to have someone

to share my radio

my comforter

but loneliness is not all wrong

and I am often asked

don’t you feel you’re missing out on something

while living by yourself

sometime I’m the one asking the question

yes I feel a little buried here

but the grave is shallow

and I am writing my life story

so can I trouble you for a life?

Just The Once

We were drunk

and not in love,

a losing combination.

Irish whiskey

not only broke down

the barriers,

it constructed a few

just so it could

knock down those

as well.

I had my hand on

your breast,

down between your legs,

like now I have

a sympathetic arm

around your shoulder,

a string of

sorrowful words

nibbling on

your patient caring ear.

We're friends

who got so drunk,

so horny,

we almost killed

our friendship.

We had to admit

we fucked up.

We both looked down

to say it.

JOHN GREY

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 Steam Ticket.