HOW LEAVING HOME WORKS I need highways, infrastructure that can differentiate between the town where I grew up and the place I need to be. And a Ford that’s up to it, getting on but faithful, its leather bucket seats faded from their prime, but radio rock stations all preset and fifty times louder than the engine. Blacktop, […]
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HIS GREAT DAY Turns out I was the great man after all. Otherwise, why the suits. Why the priest taking time out of his busy day to eulogize me. And look at those tears. To think I lived all of these unwept years figuring maybe some people were born without ducts. And they’re hugging each other. For me, the warring […]
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HOW I KEEP FIT – By John Grey The sidewalks in the city are like exercise equipment. There’s a mix of long strides on the cement treadmill and the shorter, quicker gait of the elliptical workout. A few stand at the street corner, stationary pedaling while waiting for the lights to change. Some hoist brown briefcase dumbbells. Others try the […]
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WINTER IN A FACTORY TOWN It’s the winter before winter. And the winter after winter. Everything’s stripped bare. The winds bluster like politicians. Only with cold air, not hot. Month after month, eyes can only stare, lips are too frozen to speak. The birds have flown south and are staying there. Just like senior management, except the top […]
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DEAR SPIDER – By John Grey Ants are more efficient at what they do than people. Weeds can grow just about anywhere. Animals kill to survive not for pleasure. And they collect no gewgaws besides. A homeless man sits on the pavement, holding up a sign, with a cup before him that’s hungry for coins. Most people stride on […]
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YOU HAVE A PIER IN ME – By John Grey Pier juts far into the open sea. It makes its point, not here, where stone steps lead from sand to calm wooden planks but out at the very tip of itself, where water crashes against its pylons and its slim foundations shake and shudder. Like me, there’s a calm that […]
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MEET THE MADNESS A Providence twilight, late November, every man and woman dressed in gray, sliding in and out of panels or emerging from dark recesses, all faces plain, hair drab, eyes shut, tongues muted, and there, high up in the skyscrapers, mouths in windows pause mid-shriek, as, down by the riverside, water rats crack on scattered bones […]
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City’s so dark along the edge and cutthroat down the middle. There’s a police presence. They’re looking for identity cards. But I’m an artist. Can I show them my vermilion instead? It’s raining a tarnished silver. Sirens make a show of keeping people safe. A drunk’s being kicked and beaten by cops. All I can do is watch […]
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A WEEK IN MAINE The morning of my retreat is dark with clouds loaded and low. Noisy gulls see me off. So do the first raindrops. I’m heading home but I don’t feel as if I’m going anywhere, just away from some place. I’m driving on tiptoe, tell myself, no looking back, let that woman go about blonde and blue-eyed, […]
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THE RETIRED ARTIST Such a relief to shut down my temples. I’m just a roof, some columns, an auditorium deep but empty. And, if you’re keeping score, I forgo the easel, the baton, and all that writing across time. If they want me, they can drag me out of what I’ve already accomplished. I plan to be […]
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