FOR LAWRENCE TIERNEY

Your eyes are really eggs.

They have hard shells.

They may, or may not,

contain something living.

Your memory is the ground.

That’s why your heavy boots

treat it so harshly.

Your arms are crossroads.

Go left. Go right.

Or be content with the legs.

They’re crossroads too.

Your words are signs.

You expect folks

to hang them from their necks

or paste them to their behinds.

And your mouth is a tunnel.

The traffic in and out

is fierce.

You have a face

that you copied from the cover

of a cheap thriller.

One cheek strips a woman

down to her stockings.

The other is armed with a Glock 17.

But back to those eyes.

One is cracking.

Makes me wonder,

“Is something being born?”

It breaks apart completely,

oozes white and yellow mucus.

The other sits in silence.

Your ass blows a trumpet.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review and Floyd County Moonshine. Latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.