John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Santa fe Literary Review, and Sheepshead Review. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and  “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, La Presa and California Quarterly..

FIRST DATE

I open up, my head especially,
to know exactly who you are
though we’ve just met, 

our faces opposite, 
restaurant table between,
bodies mostly hidden

but ears and eyes willing
to share everything but what 
we put in our mouths,

the meat on the fork,
the wine in the glass.
but every thought, every feeling,

fair game, a primal urgency 
the steadiness of the meal
can’t quite conceal, 

the passion tingling 
at the tip of my skin, 
the willing perfume of your pores,

the sudden glances like silent
jungle drums, the smiles,
those truth-telling lies,

and you in my brain thinking
for me, and me in your mind,
moving this date ahead of itself,

our emotions, thick as forests,
and yet carving out trails
for the other to easily follow.

THE BUSINESS OF BUSINESS IS NOT POETRY

In the dull glow of the manila folder,
I read the preposterous pontifications of big business:
memos, power point decks, training materials,
even some balance sheets, assets equaling liabilities
plus equity to the point of choking me.
Every sentence is struck in business-ese.
Concepts are repeated over and over until their vowels crack.
And there's numbers, so many numbers,
here, there, hard to trap, to throw away,
like foam peanuts in a gift package.
Imagine a world this way,
no chance of a romance, of philosophy.
Just unholy didactics whose one aim
is to keep a CEO in BMW's and mansions.
And I'm stuck with these reports,
these mind-numbing sheets of paper.
Slug my way through them, with beleaguered
understanding, and I'm rich enough
to pay the grocer, the gas bill, and maybe
even splurge at a restaurant on weekends.
So I'm plowing through the stuff of business,
the banal, the wretched, the stupefying.
I sign off on a process.
I respond to a question on stock options.
I file a report.
I drop numbers into a spreadsheet.
Meanwhile, unknown to me, mountains soar,
wildflowers bloom, wars rage, people mourn,
bodies are dragged from rivers,
eyes take comfort in the stars.
It's narrow and obsessive this business world.
You forget that poetry is always hiring.

ONE NIGHT AMONG ALL NIGHTS

I dreamed I had 
no arms and no legs.
And no torso.
No head.
Yet I had senses 
beyond the five 
I was born with.

I found a way into
the oneness of us all,
and realized  
that I could manipulate it.

I was at the top
of this wisdom chain,
this all-encompassing sentience,
where I could see and feel and know
everything.

I even saw myself lying there,
on that familiar bed,
curled up and not moving.

I cursed myself
for not being awake
for my moment.