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UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
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JOHN GREY
Crash Course So that's death I thought as I drove by the smoldering wreck. It was still recognizably a car but one only a stretch of black ice and a pole could invent. And the red light of an ambulance could well usher in the angels, while the cops stand by keeping the devils at bay. No priest on hand but there was a stretcher and that would have to do for the ladder of light. Eventually, the crash disappeared from my rear view mirror and it was just blackness behind me, headlights in front. Breathing, I think they call it. Street Guy and Me Please not that aged hippy with beat up guitar, out on the sidewalk strumming and chortling "Fire And Rain" with a cap at his feet that's barely acquainted with coin or note. I make love and it's street musician city. I write, I work, I visit family, and the soundtrack is bad tunes and begging. And I walk down Main Street and that friendless guy is telling me "You've Got A Friend." And the repertoire never varies. For ten years now, he's been insisting "The Times They Are A-Changin'." Feels like I'm doomed, from cradle to grave, to be unwitting audience to the bastard child of James Taylor, Bob Dylan, and a toothless Karaoke singer. He even asks me, "Any requests?" What's he mean? Is there something besides life? In Between Time The world is taking a short break from establishing connections some truths have fallen into place already and soon some others will stumble likewise but right now things are drifting mostly they're not in the mood to be explained the one watching over it all from a distance has closed his eyes while waiting for equivalent forces to catch up so while he's not looking time could repeat itself or it could choose not to happen at all the one generalization that the integrated state depends on proves lazy when not closely observed a man can live briefly outside the continuity of motion and a woman can ignore a fundamental proposition floating by they can move along lines other than that of least resistance arms open hearts tipping they can be other than what goes into existences at large they can be detached like it's their final answer even if eventually they must rejoin their relative positions their component parts rules don't break they just stall and stutter there must be a point to this there must be a point while they're busy saying this there's always a moment or two that's nothing but luxury couples seize the displays of mass just before they're sucked into their denser form they make love in full view of the formula John Grey has been published recently in Agni, Worcester Review, South Carolina Review and The Pedestal. |
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© 2008 Underground Voices |
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