John Greiner

Ceiling

Here is the bleeding heart hit

by the moon shot ricocheting.

Erase the last scene from the screen

and place it on the ping pong table,

this is not the movie that we came to see.

The programming is worrisome.

The popcorn is even worse.

The house manager is a pimp of the opaque trade.

He places words on nipples

calling them Milk Duds.

The usherettes have disappeared into a high

end fantasy of little historical importance.

Hurray for them and their haughty ambitions,

but I can’t find my way back to my seat.

                        My flashlight is dim,

proving that it is unwise to buy batteries

at the ninety-nine cents shop.

Where have all of the finely tailored tuxedos gone

and the smiles of a sensible decline?

Laughter lies in the depth of the orchestra pit.

The string section is loosely strung.

Once the projectionist starts to show a slideshow

on the stillness of the pox marked vaudeville wall

I know that the chorus will stay put, say nothing,

let the plot meander through the wings.

This is a circus run by fleas

itching with mosquito dreams

of malaria caught on a lost continent

filled with funhouse mirrors.  I smile.

The pinball moon is silver, tilting back

with heart punches that no one can block or counter.

All eyes are upon it, a ghost in the trapped night sky.

Aloha

My head’s the end

of my fantasy

and I don’t want to see

the elaboration of the sea

of my dreams.

It might be fun,

but please life guard,

jump in

I don’t want the sea

to fill me.

The waves rise

and I don’t want to go

out this way.

No one saves these days.

The divers go down

for the albacore

wanters drowned.

I’ll suffice on my

sorry Charlie tin tuna.

I fear Hawaii

and all of the better vacations.

I don’t want them to drag me up

                                    bloated.

                                    Aloha.

Season Greetings

My window is night,

Christmas Eve at its best.

The Robins

and

Christina Rossetti

playing loud on the jukebox

of a forgetfulness

that has nothing to do

            with me.

You're a death trap

cutting in on my bedtime prayers.

I‘m the static

of a far away sorry,

so far away,

the faraway of Smokey

            Joe’s Cafe

in the bleak midwinter.

I’m too Catholic (capital)

for these midwinters

of hymns (Protestant) .

We slide in our dances.

There’s somebody’s wife

in the next room snoring.

I’m in a mass suicide

saying nothing about myself.

I like sleep

better than stomach aches.

Christmas Eve used to be better

with its fake glitter lights and stockings

            of want.

            Now I’m caught

in the cry of the commercial

followed by the the epiphany

of Charlie Brown.

I need a new electric razor.

Baby Face Nelson

plays at St. John the Divine

and I can’t get a clean shave.

Christmas is coming

so nice and comedic

with reindeer slaughters right around

the corner,

The crucifixion

will make its way here.

I wear my crown

of thorns out of season.

I’m always thinking

about the future

in the most lascivious ways.

We’ll go to a faraway,

an Easter

with the blinds down

and Ritz crackers

that will achieve the goal

of a mock apple pie.

No sun.

The east to west

bores me to death,

but here I am.

Broadway,

Hollywood,

the Hanging Gardens

            of Babylon

and Bethlehem.

I’m with you.

I’m on a run.

Christmas

cards sit stacked up,

unread.

It’s amazing how many

people still remember us

this holiday season.

The Price of Fashion

I’m a fraud in a camel hair coat

talking the sheep up.

Red Riding Hood

is happy with her path

to fame,

it’s the meat

of so many fantasies.

She’s a cautionary tale

that climaxes

in her own myth.

Because of her

all the girls of no better days

want to be legends

in their own nursery rhymes.

I look good against

the autumn breeze

as New York City

is dismantled

brick by brick.

There’s no pigs

worth the breath

or the roast.

My tailor tells me

that I will always be in fashion.

I tell him

that he should open

a shop up on Saville Road.

I give my sly lines

to Bah Bah Blacksheep

knowing that I’ll need

a warm wool coat

when the winter winds kick up.

The Road to Convulsion

My house stands on your suitcase.

It’s sings old time songs

of going away

and you can’t say anything

because you don’t know

how to hitch a ride

or tie a double Windsor knot.

Your open collar is a shame,

even vampires stay away.

My skyscraper goes up

to the furthest extents

of the asbestos sky

and pulls out the plug

on the Hindenberg

that hovers, gasping,

over the airfield in New Jersey.

I’m a humanist,

Erasmus would weep

at the sight of me.

Luddendorf would spit on me.

Even if history repeats itself,

it never goes down into the specifics.

I was sitting on the Western Front

straightening my tie,

watching the tanks pass by,

wondering about my real estate portfolio

and if it was diverse enough.

There’s always a buck to be made,

it’s only a matter of deciding

on which side of the inevitable

line in the sand, or Iron Curtain,

to stand.

It’s always good to watch

the most recent offensive.

It’s even even better to invest

in the aviation trade.

I walk across the sky

with a hangman’s noose

that makes me grimace just right.

The lynchman knows

the road to convulsion

with a conviction in the last truth.

Your bags are stuck here

and the porters are all on strike.

Your luggage is buried

in my dugout cellar,

damp and stinking

of the mold of forgotten

childhood comic books.

I flip through the pages,

pick out intimate parcels,

create an exacting biography

of the convex image of you.

John Greiner is a writer and visual artist living in New York City. He was educated at the New School for Social Research. Greiner's work has appeared in Antiphon, Sand Journal, Otoliths, Survision, Sein und Werden, Empty Mirror, Sensitive Skin, Unarmed, Street Value and numerous other magazines. His books of poetry include In An Attic Palace Beneath a Slaughtered Sky (Arteidolia Press), Circuit (Whiskey City Press), Turnstile Burlesque (Crisis Chronicles Press) and Bodega Roses (Good Cop/Bad Cop Press). He is a 2024 recipient of the James Tate Award for his chapbook, Clouded Saints and Kinky Shadows published by SurVision Press.