the poetry that matters

Jeffrey Grunthaner

Jeffrey Grunthaner was born in New Jersey, and currently lives in New York City. He works at various jobs: among them, freelance writer, art assistant, flyer-distributor, tutor, etc. His poetry has either appeared, or is forthcoming in Caper Journal and Vox Poetica.

Glass Houses
It is really an open crevice like paint
Where despondency wears your clothes
Immolates you in three separate places:
The jackknife, the fuck device,
And the blank pages of an absent theory
The kitchen hums over the radio
Corners of misdirection
The bottles clashing their sanguine valves
Shooting through the air like snow
The rebel of the third person shifts
No longer are you “she” or “his”
But a bottle painted to resemble mist
Where the ideal of shape holds tight
A toy-box ballerina in orbic snow
The design of the room hasn't budged an inch
Not one second passes
Since the camera air pins its notice on the eyes
Amazement of brown iris
The ladders unreel themselves like strands of hair
Descending siphon hills of sky
Bathed in sky-tones, quite naturally  
Long parades of tears rumor their trumpets   
To fanfare after the fact,
Leaves scurry in the wind
In another country they are nailing tents to the ground,
Passing out notice of carnival,
Toasting absence,
And pocketing coins of emeritus praise 
Their golden heads dazzle in threads of light
Emergent sun like tendrils on the wind
We Can Work It Out
for Katie Torn
In the gap between language and ideas
There is a mushroom tranquility
Like the music of paper

The air is a transparency thriving with muscle
A fishbowl swimming with cancer
While China is rising in the distance
A frottage of red clouds

A sky is cast below the lake
Where a vegetable summit inversely descends
The crayon tower swimming with B-movie nostalgia
The tent a distant a snow cone to say “hello”
The sands in the orchard are
sprained. Your laughter
runs through the air, a
circus of disaster.
Is the telephone broken?
No one has called, and no
one ever will! In every
furrow that stretches thru
the street, I see madness,
tranquility, lies. I wait
like a camera for blossoms
that crawl the length of your
thighs; for I am her knees,
a lost child of blue roses
advancing secretly over the
graves of the cemetery

dazzles. It is Red Irons
& the man walking to
his known pickles. It
is a vast rock pile room
in Wyoming, photos on
a wall, lamp on the sill. It
is on the table, a board
composed of 2 fibers—
tiny rooms set in deceit
in such a way I have
to stand out in the after-
noon blank. On a day
the world seems locked,
stupid, hovering, it
has the world in its sights,
standing under, above,
across, & about it. It
is wash bottle trill breaking
the salt down into flakes,
& in the morning it is trucks,
fucks, engines, enigmas


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