John Grey


I’m accepting of the shirts,  

            the underwear,

that show up in the glass,

            while never asking myself once

            what I think about Twain or Whitman or Goethe

or even pink lips

            and the fumbling of my heart –

instead my eyes dry in tandem,

ears lock onto the motor hum,

and I am losing the point of myself  –

            it was blood and bone

            that separated itself from heaven,

            that leaked over time,

            that set its weaknesses up for cancer –

so why do I spend precious time

watching clothes lose their fluids

in the dryer,

the constant looping –

            I’ve lost my ability

            to be malleable –

                        man with issues

                        morphs into laziness,

                        proceeded by his spine,

                        his spirit –

I’m all pipes with rusted joints,

selling off my copper,

accepting the inevitable,

as round and round and round it goes –

as round and round and round I go.

One thought on “John Grey

  1. You’re my favorite contemporary poet. I have yet to find a poem that’s anything less than powerful. In this overwhelming ocean of mediocrity that is the web, you stand out like a buoy of magic. Simply next level. Bless you man, though you do make one want to break the pencil and never reach for a notebook again.
    Keep being around.


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