FROM THE GUTThe poet was reading, in a bar, his latest great work, page after page of scarifying, self-immolating, soul-flagellating, verse. A dozen people were listening to him. But two men, both drunk, were being loud and obnoxious. The poet asked them to quiet down as people wanted to hear. One of the men flew into a rage. The other tried to hold him back, but to no avail. The big galoot grabbed the poem out of the poet's hand and tore it to shreds. Then he grabbed the poor guy by the throat and slammed him against the wall. The audience was stunned at first as the poet, when he could momentarily free his throat from his assailant's raw grip, shouted something about "evolution" and "Neanderthal." His twelve fans packed up their stuff and left. They were willing to listen to other's troubles but didn't want to redden the bar floor with any of their own. The bartender came over and tried to put a stop to the one-sided fight. With the help of the man's buddy, he was finally able to separate the two. The poet lay bleeding. The honor of the other was brutally satisfied. "Are you okay?" asked the bar-tender of the broken scrunched up figure of the versifier. A simple "yes" or "no" was out of the question. COURT REPORTERHer job is to go unnoticed, wedged down below the judge, belt-high to prosecutor and defending attorney. scribbling, in shorthand, swiftly and silently, every word said. Her ears hear, her pen adheres to Pitman verbatim, nothing between, no unnecessary emphasis, not a better word or a rephrase, and certainly not an opinion. Robbery, rape, murder, monotone recounts or passionate pleas for understanding: to her hands, her notepad, none are any different from the other. She doesn’t sympathize with the woman attacked on a date gone wrong. She has no venom toward the man who shot and killed his wife and two young children. In the outside world, she can feel the best and worst of people. But here, her job is accuracy and indifference. Her heart plays dead so the law can live. CHILD OF GAY PARENTSThe one with the blue eyes spoke unexpectedly, called one face “dada” and the other face “dada”, making everything clear she was stunning, and not just from sounds of which they understood little, but the fact that the one with the blue eyes spoke at all. LAMENTIf only the people could stay where they are, and not be moving, always moving. with empty pockets and just the ragged clothes on their backs. If only they didn’t have to fall in at the back of the line, nudge forward at the pace of the one in front, the one behind, with the smell of war up their nostrils, and feet condemned to calluses. Seen through the air, they’re a snake winding through jungle. Seen from the ground, they’re what the snake bit. ON EMPTYAfter an hour with her mother's flickering mind, she steps from the nursing home, breathes in the aroma from the lush lawn, the nearby grove of pines. She's glad to be alive. But, more than that, she's relieved to know the names - lawn, pines, home, mother. She's been pulling words from an ancient mouth like wielding tweezers. Her mother's a January pond. She cracks here and there but does not begin to thaw. The lack of recognition goes both ways. She answers to obligation now. It fights against the rhythm of her life returning to haul her back for a visit the following week. She worries for her own fate. Is her mother's empty vessel her own sealed chamber out there, waiting somewhere in the years to come? Her husband, children, greet her with a concerned, "How is she?" She hugs them all, feels each and every separate identity. The house is old but not yet a stranger's. John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.
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