a Piaf tragic love hymn kind of grey
no not the kind of grey
when Piaf’s lusty laments
embrace you grey
a wrap-its-arms-around-you kind of grey
a dusky fatalistic tragic love hymn
sing-it-one-more-time sort of grey
no not that kind of grey
no nor like when the clouds hung low
and wrapped you like a comforter grey
on your days off in your grey plaid flannel shirt
when you used to pry up cattle pads
on the Hanson ranch
and for every pad you came upon
a lush mushroom that certain grey
that kind of soft tranquil grey
you could take back to the cabin
to pleasure in
no this is the grey
like she abruptly disengaged you mean
outright robbed you mean you don’t know the why
but she got ahold of a certain piece
of you your fond memory grey her laugh
your grey matter that lump you keep dear your birthright
took it hostage
buggered it
made it what it was not meant to be kind of grey
so what you thought you recalled
of her warmth her fond greetings
barely hung by a thread
and you know the thread was sustained by you
that piece of your memory now hers for the tromping
so you’re forced to divorce yourself
from the agony she’s driven
though it’s your brain she’s fucked with
your head you live in
as hers is a loathsome grey a razor wire grey
she’s twisted round your neck
without the benefit of rhyme
so you labor to disown her
and still that thin wretched thread re-ignites
some trickle of fire some vague connection
and you beg the grey of her
the her you’ve lost that thread
connect up to her head not yours
to spark whatever robbed the life of
what you wish you think you still hope
the two of you once shared
Previously published by Puddinghouse Publications
in this part of town
as this hombre roasts on the hiway
you could poke him with the heavy fork he’s meant to use
for spreading broiling black rock
and he would use bare hands to shove the rock
before he would poke you back
you could watch a crow snatch his slice of bread
and he would shove his fist beneath his ribs
then swallow the gruesome stabbing at his gut
just like the rest of these laborers as they sun-scorch
the egg and re-fried beans they salt from their brows
but this hombre dare not think not yet of one home beer
no doubt pisswarm as the only medicine he will get if
the battery cranks on frank’s or pedro’s chevy truck
to haul him back to his old lady always napping
where he does not know the names of all his kids
who will jump him to beg bucks he’s sweated but may never see
as he stumbles toward his lone dead olive tree for scant shade
aside his mudbrick walls which bear ancient bloodstains
spilt from his splintered jesus who does not poke back
so long hung from a rope in this stilled life without soap
as in this part of town—
—not even a rabbit screams
when you slash its throat
A lifetime of mental illness and decades of psychotherapy provide rich material for
Spiel to work with. At age 76, queer and confounded by loss associated with vascular dementia, he struggles to keep his lips above desolation. Internationally published as The Poet Spiel, Spiel’s most recent book is: “Dirty Sheets: 28 stories of passion, pathos and payback” published by Rain Mountain Press. He has published more than a dozen books. Learn more about his body of short stories, poetry, spoken word and his lifelong career as a visual artist at www.thepoetspiel.name.
