Gray mist hung over the place
I once called Home
Just as it did
In fresher winters of youth.
The banana tree that bore no fruit
Still stood beside the house.
The rest was strange to me --
Neglected, disheveled, collapsed,
Like rags clinging
To a toothless, rasping bum
Whose face is too familiar.
And a world that seemed so huge
And ripe for winning
Was just a stunted miser,
Clinging like dark, gray mist
To a place he now calls Home.
Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory. Written sometime in the 1990s.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
IWORK YOUWORKALL GODSCHILUNGOTTAWORK
"I always knew I'd reach the top,"
You said with perfect candor.
"There never was a single doubt."
i tended to agree,
As You wiped my nose
With last week's payroll.
"We worked so hard to get this far,"
Your Dacron wife explained.
"It took so long to close the deal
"When Daddy bought the business."
Your busty secretary grinned
And rubbed her legs together
As she scribbled out a pink slip
For the cretin boy
Who punched in late.
Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory. Written in 1980. Published in Contexas and a few other journals I don't recall. Perhaps one day I'll look them up.
You said with perfect candor.
"There never was a single doubt."
i tended to agree,
As You wiped my nose
With last week's payroll.
"We worked so hard to get this far,"
Your Dacron wife explained.
"It took so long to close the deal
"When Daddy bought the business."
Your busty secretary grinned
And rubbed her legs together
As she scribbled out a pink slip
For the cretin boy
Who punched in late.
Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory. Written in 1980. Published in Contexas and a few other journals I don't recall. Perhaps one day I'll look them up.
KNIFE EDGE
Slipping out the back way
Will just open the wound inside her deeper,
For he pursues with the jagged blade,
And slips it neatly and discreetly
Into the folds of her soul.
He is the assassin of her dream,
The dark-eyed procurer
Who puts her on the black-tar street
To poison for lust
And lust for poison,
And long by night
To die someday
On knife edge.
Copyright 2007 by Jon Gregory. Written in 1999.
Will just open the wound inside her deeper,
For he pursues with the jagged blade,
And slips it neatly and discreetly
Into the folds of her soul.
He is the assassin of her dream,
The dark-eyed procurer
Who puts her on the black-tar street
To poison for lust
And lust for poison,
And long by night
To die someday
On knife edge.
Copyright 2007 by Jon Gregory. Written in 1999.
WINO
Leroy Johnson lives in the Regal Motel
In scenic downtown Sedalia.
His father shined shoes.
His grandfather was a field hand.
Leroy is 60, a one-time Baptist who's been too drunk
To go to church for the last 35 years.
His beverage is often Falstaff beer, which he likes to drink
Alone on the streets at night, taking in the cold
Inside and out.
His smoke is a cheap cigar,
Whatever gets nicotine to the blood quickly,
With the least nausea.
He eats cheaply -- rice and beans and vegetables
With just enough hot sauce,
On a hot plate in his room.
He was once a tough little fellow.
Respected in all the taverns in town.
Now he tries to stay out of everyone's way, for his belly
Is soft, his hands slowed, his reflexes listless.
His clothes are mostly black and brown, matching his skin.
His income used to come from the numbers,
sometimes from whores, now from dishwashing.
He could have been a mathematician.
He is as American as a baseball game,
And as much a stranger in his own land
As his long-lost appendix is
To his own bloated side.
Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory. Written in 1988.
In scenic downtown Sedalia.
His father shined shoes.
His grandfather was a field hand.
Leroy is 60, a one-time Baptist who's been too drunk
To go to church for the last 35 years.
His beverage is often Falstaff beer, which he likes to drink
Alone on the streets at night, taking in the cold
Inside and out.
His smoke is a cheap cigar,
Whatever gets nicotine to the blood quickly,
With the least nausea.
He eats cheaply -- rice and beans and vegetables
With just enough hot sauce,
On a hot plate in his room.
He was once a tough little fellow.
Respected in all the taverns in town.
Now he tries to stay out of everyone's way, for his belly
Is soft, his hands slowed, his reflexes listless.
His clothes are mostly black and brown, matching his skin.
His income used to come from the numbers,
sometimes from whores, now from dishwashing.
He could have been a mathematician.
He is as American as a baseball game,
And as much a stranger in his own land
As his long-lost appendix is
To his own bloated side.
Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory. Written in 1988.
Friday, April 13, 2007
WHERE THE RUBBER FINALLY MET THE ROAD
It was the day the Goodyear blimp
Came down over Shacktown
And crashed on the highway
Next to the wrecking yard.
Winos put their bottles down;
Hookers spat out their johns;
The cops stopped beating Rodney King;
And chop-shop bandits dropped their tools
As flames scorched the brown ozone sky.
"Oh, the humanity!"
A reporter cried out in vain.
A few days later, a charred asphalt crust
Covered the space where the rubber
Finally met the road.
I steered around the "road closed" signs
And sped down the shoulder,
Holding my breath against vulcanized smoke.
Hell, I was late for work.
Copyright 2007 by Jon Gregory. Written in August 2003.
Came down over Shacktown
And crashed on the highway
Next to the wrecking yard.
Winos put their bottles down;
Hookers spat out their johns;
The cops stopped beating Rodney King;
And chop-shop bandits dropped their tools
As flames scorched the brown ozone sky.
"Oh, the humanity!"
A reporter cried out in vain.
A few days later, a charred asphalt crust
Covered the space where the rubber
Finally met the road.
I steered around the "road closed" signs
And sped down the shoulder,
Holding my breath against vulcanized smoke.
Hell, I was late for work.
Copyright 2007 by Jon Gregory. Written in August 2003.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
TRIBES, FRIENDS AND DREAMS
A tribe is a way of conning yourself
Into thinking you're not alone --
A ritual dance the natives perform
In ceremonial lodges,
Hand-in-hand, tongue-in-cheek, thumb-up-your-ass
Consecration of membership,
Robes of an unbroken chain of order
That clothe the hairless ape within.
A friend is a way of conning yourself
Into thinking you're not a freak --
A listener to your many laments,
Like a human sanctuary.
Give and take, take and give, one last mistake,
The nature of a long kinship,
From rags to riches, and then back to rags,
Tatters of remembered neglect.
A dream is a way of helping yourself
Believe you'll never really die --
A ritual dance your brain must perform
To keep you moving with the tribe,
Arm-in-arm, locked in step, one of the clan,
Until you sleep, and freedom pulls
You out of line, and then you know,
One day we all must dream alone.
Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory
Into thinking you're not alone --
A ritual dance the natives perform
In ceremonial lodges,
Hand-in-hand, tongue-in-cheek, thumb-up-your-ass
Consecration of membership,
Robes of an unbroken chain of order
That clothe the hairless ape within.
A friend is a way of conning yourself
Into thinking you're not a freak --
A listener to your many laments,
Like a human sanctuary.
Give and take, take and give, one last mistake,
The nature of a long kinship,
From rags to riches, and then back to rags,
Tatters of remembered neglect.
A dream is a way of helping yourself
Believe you'll never really die --
A ritual dance your brain must perform
To keep you moving with the tribe,
Arm-in-arm, locked in step, one of the clan,
Until you sleep, and freedom pulls
You out of line, and then you know,
One day we all must dream alone.
Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory
FREDRICH NIETZSCHE'S OF HOLLYWOOD
He slipped into Dionysian coma
Amid the black lace brassieres
And was rushed to Betty Ford Clinic
Where he was dead on arrival.
To die for art
Is a beautiful thing.
The question is:
Will it make good box office?
Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory. Previously published in The American Dissident, Fall 2001/Winter 2002, and in Map of Austin Poetry e-zine.
Amid the black lace brassieres
And was rushed to Betty Ford Clinic
Where he was dead on arrival.
To die for art
Is a beautiful thing.
The question is:
Will it make good box office?
Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory. Previously published in The American Dissident, Fall 2001/Winter 2002, and in Map of Austin Poetry e-zine.
MEMORY IS A LONELY MATINEE
Memory is a lonely matinee for the cursed.
A cast of unpleasant characters
Parades across the mind's stage,
Taking bows every day,
Twice on Sundays --
Well-supported by embarrassment,
Under the painstaking direction
Of bitter regret.
Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory. Published in the Austin International Poetry Festival's 2002 anthology. Written in 1993.
A cast of unpleasant characters
Parades across the mind's stage,
Taking bows every day,
Twice on Sundays --
Well-supported by embarrassment,
Under the painstaking direction
Of bitter regret.
Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory. Published in the Austin International Poetry Festival's 2002 anthology. Written in 1993.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
PROSE POEM I
The somnabolist walks among us. Without Doctor Caligari's aid he murders the ancient dreamers of our city and spares others like him, spiritless and seeking surer means of anesthesia. The living shall know dreamless slumber, even as they build the pyramids, till another man's godless acre, and begat many more recruits to march in lockstep to the great hypnosis.
Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory. Written in 1992.
Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory. Written in 1992.
Sunday, April 8, 2007
A SHAREHOLDER FOR ALL SEASONS
There was a drop in the stock market tomorrow.
Rain is forecast for yesterday.
And as the Dow flooded the streets,
His broker advised him to sell
The thunderheads in his portfolio.
He was ever the clever investor,
Mindful of seasons and cycles,
But in reverse.
And in time, he got rich
Off hot stocks in winter and
Cool bonds in summer.
But then, the day arrived
When lightning reduced him
To charred junk bonds.
His memory fades into mercury
Like midnight sun.
Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory. Originally written in May 2002.
Rain is forecast for yesterday.
And as the Dow flooded the streets,
His broker advised him to sell
The thunderheads in his portfolio.
He was ever the clever investor,
Mindful of seasons and cycles,
But in reverse.
And in time, he got rich
Off hot stocks in winter and
Cool bonds in summer.
But then, the day arrived
When lightning reduced him
To charred junk bonds.
His memory fades into mercury
Like midnight sun.
Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory. Originally written in May 2002.
Friday, April 6, 2007
LOVE AND DOUBT ON THE GREAT PLAINS
It's doubtful whether flat-earth life is real
And high-peak dreams are not;
Whether we steer smoothly across our times,
Or the times are leveling us;
Whether our love is eternal,
Or prairie sex with a ring and a prayer;
Whether DNA flatly determines
Everything about us,
As if it stands for Dumb Naked Ape --
Or did we choose our horizontal truth?
It's doubtful which of us will live longer,
Whether I was a blessing or
A flat-out curse on you, or you on me.
Whether our lives and times out here
Meant anything at all,
There is one thing that I will never doubt:
You made some days on this bare plain
The best I ever knew.
Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory. Actually written in November 2000.
And high-peak dreams are not;
Whether we steer smoothly across our times,
Or the times are leveling us;
Whether our love is eternal,
Or prairie sex with a ring and a prayer;
Whether DNA flatly determines
Everything about us,
As if it stands for Dumb Naked Ape --
Or did we choose our horizontal truth?
It's doubtful which of us will live longer,
Whether I was a blessing or
A flat-out curse on you, or you on me.
Whether our lives and times out here
Meant anything at all,
There is one thing that I will never doubt:
You made some days on this bare plain
The best I ever knew.
Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory. Actually written in November 2000.
Sunday, April 1, 2007
NEUROPATHOLOGY
Would you rather have your dreams die
Before your brain cells do,
Or prefer it the other way around?
Maybe it depends on which dreams
Or which brain cells we're talking about.
And since we only use about
6 percent of our brain cells
In an average lifetime (or so I've heard),
That means about 94 percent
Of one's brain is expendable.
But some of us use 100 percent
Of our dreams, and then
In an average lifetime we make
About 6 percent of them come true.
That must mean about 94 percent
Of one's dreams are expendable,
And that's a lot of death
To witness in an average lifetime.
And so, some decide they'd rather
Have the brain cells go first,
And they spend a lot of time and money
Racing to kill them off.
But in an average lifetime,
The best that they can hope for is a tie.
Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory. Actually written in January 2000.
Before your brain cells do,
Or prefer it the other way around?
Maybe it depends on which dreams
Or which brain cells we're talking about.
And since we only use about
6 percent of our brain cells
In an average lifetime (or so I've heard),
That means about 94 percent
Of one's brain is expendable.
But some of us use 100 percent
Of our dreams, and then
In an average lifetime we make
About 6 percent of them come true.
That must mean about 94 percent
Of one's dreams are expendable,
And that's a lot of death
To witness in an average lifetime.
And so, some decide they'd rather
Have the brain cells go first,
And they spend a lot of time and money
Racing to kill them off.
But in an average lifetime,
The best that they can hope for is a tie.
Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory. Actually written in January 2000.
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