MELISSA SCREAMED
as a last resort,
as a painted lady,
as an agitated tonsil,
as the trains
that clang and clatter by,
as an exploding water toss balloon,
as a too-late fine print reader,
as
Arctic earth melting,
as someone incapable
in so many fields,
as
dreams lied to,
as good as it gets
and
how bad that is,
as her half-blind dolls
cradled in trembling arms
THE DEATH OF A SCHOOL
HOUSE
It was a spring day
and I stood in tall, wet grass
watching wreckers demolish
the old brick schoolhouse.
I couldn't see the men
up in their cabins,
just the machinery lifting and turning,
its big ball swinging and smacking
against that ancient brick.
Ceilings collapsed,
walls buckled,
desks were demolished,
chairs busted,
and blackboards shattered.
A globe rolled away from the destruction,
stopped short of my feet.
The past was done for
but, at least, the world escaped.
FIRST PARTY OF THE SUMMER
I'm
here because it's the place to be.
My
car knows. That's why it parked so easily.
Despite
the presence of the moon,
the
sky is filled with daylight.
And
I'm on time -
first
Saturday night in summer.
Everyone's
hanging out.
They
may be strangers
but
they know me.
I
check my face in the rear view mirror.
Everything
fits.
I'm
here to live a life
instead
of just writing it.
I
have the street address in my pocket.
It's
time to match paper to stoop,
anticipation
to party.
People
live in this neighborhood
and
they're glad to be finally mellow.
Even
the ones dragging groceries.
Especially
those I follow through the front door
and
up the stairs to apartment 2C.
First
Saturday night in summer
and
already a conga drummer has bloomed,
drinks
are mixed in the exact image
of
the partaker
and
the preponderance of women
inspires
me, for the first time in my life,
to
use the word "fine" in a sentence.
For
less than a minute,
f
don't know anybody here.
The
rest of the time,
I'm
old friends
with
a young woman majoring in economics
and
a painter who's torn
between landscapes and abstraction.
It's the first Saturday night in summer.
I
don't drink too much,
plan
to save myself for the end of the night,
the
stumble into the street
where
gravity needs all its weapons
to
keep me earthbound.
Sure,
1 can shout "Party!" with the best of them.
But
the good times just aren't about the instant.
They're
required to last.
So
I want this to be a capsule
I
can take again and again.
It
can’t just be a key
to doors already open.
HER
FAREWELL SPEECH
"You
do not know how much you've meant to me," she said.
I
ducked but still felt the swish of a right hand jab.
"I
low rare it is to find someone like you."
Her
tongue had a champ's capacity
for
striking then retreating in an instant.
"In
a life - you know - all small talk, odds and ends."
My
head started to throb like the bass on a cheap boom box.
"And
then we met."
Her
words had that smooth gliding step
of
a featherweight boxer.
"And
it was good for so so long. But now..."
I
was prepared for everything.
Just not a heavyweight's fist.
SWINE
OF THE TIMES
The
cool refreshing
taste
of Nazis.
A
bag of magic
wifely
duties.
An
amputee's penis envy.
A
mime giving
a
sad hand job.
The
miracle
of
vaginal wind.
Count
Chocula
versus
famine
in
the horn of Africa.
Playing
"My Heart
Will
Go On"
on
the harmonica.
A
sea of Lunchables.
Three
Christopher Walkens
at
the same time.
A
gentle caress
of
your inner Pope.
Half-assed
hope.
A
salty surprise
in
your hitchhiker.
Leprosy
among goblins.
Free
samples of Nicolas Cage.
Bingeing
and purging
during
foreplay.
Feeding
a breakfast burrito
to
a one-year old.
Pretending
to care
about
Robert Downey Junior.
Repressed
boogers.
Laser
tongue removal.
An
endless stream
of
poor people
with
diarrhea.
The
invisible hand
of
child beauty pageants.
Doing
the hustle
during
natural selection.
Pixelated
chainsaws.
Historically
black colleges
and
the KKK
for a balanced breakfast.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Lana Turner and International Poetry Review.
I love that 'first party of summer'
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