Greg's Commonplace Book

Profiles

here’s the part, capt’n, where I try to tell a story as if it were a confession

unlike you and I            jesus knew he’d die

a god who spits  blood from tuberculosis and doesn’t even have enough for bus fare

not brushed off  by the person that did not see him, has never seen him, has perhaps never seen anyone who is not a reflection of himself.

I demand a war to bring the dead boy back no matter what his name is this time.

7. monster until proven ghost

flimsy white fork to snap in half. dispose of me.

Do you know anything about your people?

They have no idea what I am.

I do not feel sorry for you.

It’s no wonder Pastor John’s son is the angel—everyone knows angels are white.

a mausoleum mosaic, a sick tapestry: the tiny remains roused from death’s dusty cradle, cut in half, cracked, wrapped in time-tattered scraps of blankets.

I returned to a country battlefield where colored troops fought and died—

Time is only a moment; “ Love is forever, yet putrescent" the lonely caterpillar ponders, "O look where the bees go!"