CAR-POOLING
Doug drove yesterday
but who did it the day before?
Is it my day..
No it can't be.
But what if it is
and I don't show up at Dick's house?
Is he thinking,
"Well maybe it really is my turn?"
And who's due to suggest sex next?
Me? My wife?
The therapist?
Should I call Dick? Or Doug?
What about Roger?
Wait a minute. Roger doesn't drive.
It pays to be Roger.
But what if no one comes to pick him up?
Who does he call?
Me? Dick? Doug?
Maybe he just says to his wife,
"Screw 'em. Let's screw."
But what if it's not his turn
to name the place and date.
Finally, Joe shows up,
with Doug in the front,
Dick and Roger in the backseat.
I'd forgotten about Joe.
One day, I'll forget about sex.
THAT FEATURED POET
he reads last because
of his piece de resistance past,
his highlighted angst,
headlining pain,
those main attraction disappointments
and his cream of the crop scars;
no other poet on the bill
is such a nabob of nihilism,
a bench-mark of bitterness,
a milestone of madness;
he's just superior
at jibes, at beauty,
at nakedness, and of course,
he's a leading light
when it comes to spilling blood;
the audience gasp -
if only we could be that miserable,
that insane;
when he's done,
he offers up some books for sale;
you can't buy his torment
for love or money
but at least
you can buy into it.
LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING ABOUT MY COUNTRY
If Australia was a fruit,
its soft rind would disguise a hard core.
Same as if it was a tennis ball.
A wild smash with a racket
would shudder a body violently
from finger bones to toes.
If it was a person,
sure they’d smile a welcome,
shake your hand,
but it has the propensity
to leave you hot and dry
in its overwhelming outback guts.
I’m back home for a short visit,
strolling a beach barefoot,
cool surf tickling my skin,
while, far to the west of me,
there’s a beach that stretches to near-infinity
before it gets within one salty smell
of the Indian Ocean.
My people are giving
but there’s only so much to give.
I spend my time
in their soft crust
before it gives way
to rock-hard bread.
MOMENTS FROM MY LIFE
It has been my experience that,
in most of my fishing excursions,
the joke is on the fish
I sometimes dress as an owl
to scare away all unwanted critters.
I often forget
to keep myself contained.
The hours fly by
yet the clock still believes
it’s keeping correct time.
Everything I thought I’d seen the last of
keeps coming back.
The last time I kicked anything
was back in my early twenties.
I believe it was a ball of some description.
Up until now,
I have not written a poem
that refers in any way
to a kiss on the top of a head.
No one I know
knocks three times politely.
THE ONE-MAN REVOLUTION
he’s the last
of the revolutionaries -
every day
with the downtown park
as a podium
he rants and raves
about how
capitalism will fall
any day now
and the Marxists
will take over
redistribute the wealth -
he’s been preaching this
for sixty years -
he’ll be preaching it
on his death bed –
something
that’s never
gonna happen
is always gonna happen –
he takes comfort in that
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, New English Review and Tenth Muse. Latest books, “Subject Matters”, ”Between Two Fires” and “Covert” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Amazing Stories and River and South.
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