MEETING THE ONE

by John Grey

So loneliness is an airless, colorless, dungeon

and nowhere drearier than in the heart,

with, as a food source, the worms at the base of the well,

slithered up by kiss-less lips.

And the joining up is what they will remember,

when they feel gratitude from all directions,

these young men marching hi full light,

chests swelled, arms reaching out.

Each one may have been a martyr to his ditch of darkness,

in the depths of a crevasse, in the shadows of the blind.

It could have been be a black hole maybe twenty miles deep,

with only the rats who occupy their minds.

And then there’s the one –

and that’s the last they’ll see of all that darkness.

For dungeons and wells, ditches and crevasses –

only the pit of a heart resembles these.

But press it soft against the breast of a lover

and shoot and explode, destroy and sabotage all dark places.

So here they all are, happier for being proudly selfish.

It’s a great day. It apologizes for the days not like this.

IT’S A DOG’S WORLD

by John Grey

Why shouldn’t I jump from the roof?

The evidence:

coffee spills, bills, talk radio, canned food, clichés.

As for the last of these,

I’m always either dog-tired or sick as a dog.

Not forgetting the dog-eat-dog world

and the sleeping dogs within me

that I tease too much,

and have no one else to blame

when they snarl and bite.

As Hank Williams once sang,

“I’m in the dog-house now.”

And yes, my face never varies from

“you look like somebody just shot your dog.”

Forget the coffee spills, the bills, the talk radio, the canned food

I’m a trembling mess of canine clichés.

So why shouldn’t I jump from the roof?

Ok, so it makes more sense to chase my tail.

Or sniff somebody’s butt.

Or drink out of the toilet

Or tree squirrels. Or bark at strangers.

But I’ve done all that. None of it helps.

Besides, it’s a very low roof on a very low one story home.

I can easily land on all fours.

It’s just a show after all.

And if that’s what the pretty bitch next door wants…

ADDICTION

by John Grey

I despise habit,

these patterns that won’t let up; my body keeps doing everything

my brain warns it against;

I’m combining cough syrup with cheap vodka;

I’m floating like a butterfly

where butterflies don’t belong;

I’m having sex

with the kitchen floor

and my body is molasses sticky –

let’s not quibble –

it’s really molasses sex;

and now I’m drifting above myself,

looking down at ordinary life,

a superior being

on a Wednesday afternoon

in August;

and there goes my brain again,

repeating over and over,

it really is up to me;

but my body is oblivious –

for all the addition my mind invokes,

I’m down with the subtraction.