the poetry that matters

John Grey

John Grey lives in Providence, RI, and has been published in Agni, Worcester Review,  South Carolina Review and The Pedestal; with work upcoming in Poetry East and Cape Rock.

FOR JOE ESQUIRE                                   


when I wrote the sage of the iridium nib        

the blasphemy of curled, caved-in lines

on melancholy paper diseased by stool-pigeon

creosote/a manner of breathing speaking in the

language of burning buildings more real than smoke/

behind the chrysanthemum show

peep-show art school with corn-flake sensibility

meanwhile back at the slide-rule

I stand side-by-side with my wings and we

discuss flight like butterflies

our color running like eggs

like primary blueprint time

like transparent circles

in contentious armory/memory

moving the board  the ball-game

the weaving of a moon-clipped

shadow tongue-lasher

seeks home in abandoned stars/sewer









A mind like                                               

a sleeveless dress

all arms and tan

and cool wind

in place of thought

a heart like

a worn shoe

grubby toes of feeling

wiggle away the dirt

while rusty nails penetrate love

a soul like

a frayed button

about to lose contact

with budding holes

of stringy prayer

all together

a package in place of Elsa

left on the doorstep

of a word or two

spoken to the want of becoming




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