Poetry: John Grey

John Grey

A FEAR POEM

Fear flows end to end,

encompasses everything,

even death.

We all fear more than we need to.

For there are no facts.

No verification.

Fear to the right of me.

Fear to the left.

Every word.

Every list of things.

Even the etceteras.

All fear. 

Visions of fear.

Tremblings of fear.

Piercing needles of fear.

Even the just born baby

brings more fear into the world.

Fear is always the next thing

that falls back on 

whatever’s happening now.

It stands in every line.

Behind and ahead.

It’s like a sprit gone bad.

A cold north wind

blowing from within.

In the mind, fear makes decisions.

Sometimes, it is the decision.

It keeps you awake.

It winks at you

from somewhere behind your eyes.

It gets you alone

even when you’re with people.

Fear is a great believer

in fear for its own sake.

It doesn’t mean harm.

It just fears that it could.

***

WITH MY DNA

It was foretold to me

that I’d have a future like this -  

a job all over the landscape

yet barely seen -

exactly how?

I’m just a blip

in a collaborative

that, every now and then,

calls for me

but is mostly the creation of others –

this is my descent,

my fate to join all those others

on my father’s side

who never made much of themselves –

the family BBQ drinkers,

the mindless,

the cousins mostly half-asleep,

the moribund faces a good way 

of knowing how hard it is

to make something of myself –

(this is all thinking and remembering

this is me telling myself – hey don’t worry –

you moved on)

So I don’t mind.

I’m not like them.

I’m not perfect but I can gush a little.

Where I came from,

just startled me for a moment.

I’m this enduring freak of my own nature,

with just enough guts

and keys to places

to make it in this world –

some didn’t –

they’re either dead or in a bad place -

I made more of myself

than what was handed down to me -

I even have a vanity plate on my car –

the first of which I hope

will be a long line.

***

FOREIGN TERRITORY

I was doing

this reading

at an art gallery.

An art opening actually.

A woman named Amanda

was debuting 

her mix of resurgent dadaism,

relational aesthetics, 

absurdist and anti-anti-art.

While the crowds

nibbled cheese,

drank wine,

I took to 

the makeshift stage 

and ran through

a few old favorites

to a modicum of applause.

As I was about to leave,

Amanda thanked me for coming.

I told her that

if I ever have

an opening at a poetry gallery

I’ll invite her along

to paint.

***

ALL FOR MY LOVE 

I sliced my finger on a paper edge for my love.

I ate grapes. I picked lilac.

I drove golf balls. I made quiche.

I rode a motorcycle thirty miles down the

canyon road and I stopped to spit on

the shiny gray surface of a rock, all for my love.

I sat in a movie theater alone

and watched a movie for my love.

I could see the air sweat in the projector beams,

the actors grovel and die.

They were helping me out.

They were doing it for my love.

I laid a table for my love.

Even when I set no specific place,

it was all for my love.

Emptiness is for my love.

I smiled at the Puerto Ricans next door for my love.

I stuck my nose in flowers,

drank Coke, smoked cigarettes,

a thousand little things that joined together

almost outside of me doing them,

that were parcel wrapped into a gift

with a ribbon of some almost abstract intent,

and given to my love

in all its absent places.

I even thought of that long before I write it down.

I thought of it for my love,

like I thought of the police car for my love,

and the barking puppy, and the half-cooked steak,

and the CD I popped into the player

and my bank statement, and the obituaries

in the newspaper that I read for my love.

The dead are for my love.

The strangers are for my love.

Everyone who lives, who fever lived,

assists me in assigning the deeds 1 do,

they do, into this whole and homogenized

way of doing, and It's all done for my love.

Later, HI catch a bus for my love.

Til read a magazine, squish a bug.

So what if my love does nothing for me.

And as for someone to love...

why should I share the busy work, the obvious results?

***

YOUNG THIEVES

my youth was not theirs

but they took it anyhow

leaving nothing for me –

late afternoon I see them

down on the beach

splashing in the water

or lying on the sand

while all I am left with

is a rock

a notepad

and a pen –

those villains

make me

keep my shirt on –

they have my August

my adolescence –

even my skin

so evenly tanned –

damn thieves!

that used to be

the best of me

***

---

Setu, December 2025