FROM THE HEART OF A HOARDER

Stuff overflows the house –
to the disinterest onlooker, it is the house – 
you may be able to live with the barest
minimum of items –
but I'm committed to purchases, 
storing objects in previous empty places -

you are looking at a lifetime – 
you can't say that in your house –
come inside, if you can find the space –
I will point to you the boy, the man
I am now, and everything in between –

wherever I live, 
a museum wraps around me like a cloak – 
every book, every toy, 
every photograph, every piece of music -

I can show you my life history 
in nothing but spoons – 
my most cherished secrets in a filing cabinet –
interested in the real me?

come along - a sated closet awaits –
I was married once – 
"it's either all this crap or me," she said –

take a good look - you'll find
report cards, bank statements, 
comics, newspapers, razor blades, 
ceramic horses, tin soldiers, baseball cards, 
but ultimatums –   nada.




TO MAKE THIS WORK

I have no wings,
no gills –
can’t fly,
can’t live under water.

But I can 
occupy a parlor chair,
put my feet up on an ottoman,
drink beer, munch chips,
and stare at football games
on a flat-screen television.

You’d be surprised
at what can constitute a pet.





THE DAY BY ROTE

The day glows yellow
in the clock radio face.
The day puts the kettle on
for coffee.
The day shaves the lower 
half of my face.
The day dresses me
in what won’t embarrass 
either of us
in the brightest of its light.
The day exits the house,
gripping my hand.
The day starts the car.
I grip the wheel
but the day is in the driver’s seat.





WHY I SAID “NO”

There’s no such thing as an innocent family picnic.
The food aims right for my craw.
The alcohol comes on like a compress.
Open the old hurts.  Cut through the insincere smiles.
It takes more than courage to take the hand of brothers.
To eat with them 
To sit between those great boulders
and not call them bastards.

You urge me to set aside my differences
for the afternoon.
Sure, like green, given the occasion,
can convince itself that it’s really orange.  
It’s okay for you. You’re only a family member
courtesy of the diamond on your finger.
My brothers and I drown in the same blood.  

In my dream, I crash the event in my car.
In one great sweep, down goes the grill, the hotdogs,
the glowing coals, the ash.
No my dear, pretending I’m someone else won’t wash.
Won’t wash the words. Won’t wash the deed.
And if you think there’ll be some kneeling involved,
a little begging for forgiveness,
you’ve been watching the wrong drama.
The wounds cut deep.
The blades are still in me, still jiggling about, 
in search of a more tender spot.

There’s no shared memories 
to flutter a cooling breeze.
No ray of sunlight in a web of darkness.
No natural bond that will pull us all into line.
Just baggage. Just pain.
For me, one family ends here.
Only you and I can have a future.



EMMA REMEMBERS THE MAN OF THE HOUSE

He was Seagram 7 man.
He was Budweiser man.
Much of her childhood
was the stink of his breath.
But she loved him -
even when he drove that Chrysler 
like a crazed demon,
with her bouncing in the backseat; 
even when his slippery grip
once dropped her to the floor.

And he was rough hands man.
He was chest scar man.
Much of her childhood
was him up on a roof somewhere,
in searing sun,
hammering in tiles 
or repairing chimneys.
High atop a house,
he was a god.
Then after work,
straight to the bar,
he would stumble home as the devil.

He was holy man.
He was nasty man.
But she loved him –
when he tore her heart out, 
it refused to tear. 


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, California Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and  “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Isotrope Literary Journal, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.