Dream of Moths

I went into the garden         to pick flowers, 
        Saw a rock     & went to pick it up.
    It was a music box.
            When I opened it,
                There were three little women:
One in a rocking chair,
            one sewing
                    & one reading.

        In the box there was jewelry     & foreign money.
            The women said
    It was mine for finding it.

I asked them     if I could get them anything to drink,
    & went in for water & an eye dropper.

        They thanked me
    & said they were human by day,
                    But at night     they became moths.

        They asked me
    to leave the window open a little
    so they could come out of the rain & snow.

From Mirror To You

Your sad hands ramble over
The badlands of your face
Like old prospectors that drag
Metal-detectors across the beach.
They call their grim barracks castles.
They search for adorable fortunes
Beneath abandoned arcade boardwalks.
They invest their time on shaky docks.
But although the harbor is empty
A brave life-raft will sail out
Toward the open, opulent ocean
Over the waves of your hair
Below the cliffs of your brow
Finding a fresh current to freedom.

Intercranial Transportation

In Paris the theatres run all night
just like the airports & train depot.
There’s something there for every taste:
the light-hearted nonsense-fun
of Jean Vigo, the social-realism
of Marcel Pagnol. the film-noir intensity
of Henri-Georges Clouzot,
the magic-surrealism of Jean-Cocteau,
the depressive minimalism of Robert Bresson,
the animated impressionism of Jean Renoir,
the melancholia of Alain Resnais,
the social criticism of Luis Buñuel,
the naturalism of Louis Malle,
the nihilism of Jean-luc Godard,
Eric Rohmer’s documentary style,
Claude Lelouch’s  film collages,
Claude Chabrol’s dark visions, 
Francois Truffaut’s killer women,
Bertrand Tavernier’s representation
of the class struggle, Jacques Demy 
& Agnes Varda’s collaborations,
Andre Techine’s upside-down psychology.
If the movie shown is American,
the audience becomes temporarily American.
Then there’s the campy revivalist pastique
of Quentin Tarantino, the social wit
of Woody Allen, the imagistic
techno-flashes of Michael Bay
the existential humor of the Coen brothers,
the mythological fantasies of Peter Jackson,
the galaxies of George Lucas,
the fun gothic images of Tim Burton,
the satiric slapstick of Seth Macfarlane,
the moralistic anti-heroes of Clint Eastwood,
the neo-classicism of Kenneth Branagh,
David Lynch’s psychotic characters,
Sofia Coppola’s unsentimental documentary style,
James Cameron’s alien landscapes,
& Brian De Palma’s gangster sagas.

Neither Time nor distance can part us.

The Word

Two boys, one black & one white,
were friends in the 4th grade.
Though they usually got along,
one day, during recess, they fought.
Both were angry, so for awhile
they tried to slug each other
until the black boy lost balance
& the white boy sat on his chest.
When he couldn’t break himself free,
the black boy called the white boy
the worst name he could think of.
The white boy didn’t understand.
His mother had taught him
never to use that ugly word.

Sir Real

Angry roses run in circles.
Nebulae of blood seek revenge.
Drunken trees slur in the wind.
Rainbows of music radiate heat.
Eagles dance to a Latin beat.

Blasting caps wrap rats in half.
Rafts of delight sail intravenously.
Elite meat eaters beat a retreat.
Time & gravity share a seat.
On a clear night you can see them meet.
Neverland is better than bitter defeat.

Metamorphosis

People of the future!
Space & time between us,
Everyone a genetic genius,
Unlike the idiots
That paddle this smoky sky.

They will wake, each day
In their pyramids & domes,
So unlike our present homes,
To play all day
With each other’s clones.

They will all read poems,
Especially yours & mine,
Preserved for all time
In vast computer archives
So different from the present kind.

© Eric Greinke, all rights reserved.