A poem by Ray Sweatman

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  • Grasshopper reads Chekhov to a Thai Hooker in the Hollow of an Oak in a Cul-de-Sac

    The flip of a tractor trailer
    The writhe of a live power line
    The closing of the main road

    Has me on this sidestreet
    Looking for a way home
    A house, woods, trees
    Just another cul-de-sac
    With no way out
    And there in the hollow
    Of an oak I see a face
    Mumbling the words
    ‘We must work, work, work’

    Which could be my grandfather’s
    Just before he fell off the wagon
    And died alone on a long binge
    Quickly I retreat
    But soon I’m back
    At another sleepy circle
    In front of another house
    Looking much like the other
    Staring at another face
    Whispering in the hollow:
    ‘I’m in mourning for my life’

    Which could be yours from
    25 years ago speaking the words
    Of some playwright from 50 years before
    On some stage I’d long forgotten
    (Hope you’re doing fine)
    (And whatever role you’ve found
    is the one you want)
    Or maybe it was the blank stare
    Of my grandmother
    Who would sit for hours
    Watching wrestling on TV
    ‘Mammaw, you know it’s not real’
    ‘Oh but it is. I’ve seen the blood.’

    And so I get out of there
    Only to find another cul-de-sac
    Much like the others
    And this time it’s the stupor of my father
    Stumbling through the front door
    His white T drenched with blood
    Glass in his hair, but now he looks
    Like David Carradine, whispering:
    ‘Two things we know, Grasshopper.
    All living things suffer. And yet
    they are programmed to keep going.
    Til they just can’t go no more.’

    And then there ‘s this nirvanic grin
    Followed by a gurgling sound
    And then nothing
    But a curdling darkness
    Wrapping about me
    Like an old cloak
    from an old theater
    expecting me to slip in
    Or maybe it’s just an ordinary owl
    Keeping me from sleep
    With his ridiculous truths
    From some other century
    And all will be forgotten
    On the way to work
    In a certain slant of morning
    Beyond the tinny grace of birds
    Teasing in the distance.
    Ray Sweatman

    Grasshopper

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