Cutthroat Alternatives

Posted on October 15, 2021 by Greg Wright

I.

Leaving my air-
conditioned digs
I drove half an hour
hiked a quarter mile
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Killing Time

Posted on August 9, 2021 by Greg Wright

They of course caught Bulova red-handed.
He had more hands than one, naturally,
but it was the bloody one that mattered—
the third hand, the one entitled second,

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Oratio Dominica, Anglica Vetus

Posted on July 30, 2021 by Greg Wright

Joan Wicleff it was
from whom I learnt:
art is a verb.

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Intermission, Kansas

Posted on July 21, 2021 by Greg Wright

Once upon a time in Memphis,
I consumed 300 films a year;
what would I ever have done
in a ghosted town like yours,

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The Half of It

Posted on July 21, 2021 by Greg Wright

inspired by the film of that name

i.

You want me to turn out the lamp.
I linger on your face a little longer.

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Schrödinger’s Poem

Posted on July 21, 2021 by Greg Wright

Perhaps you should stop reading now.
Continue and you may determine
whether this poem begins to live today
or if it be dead when read, as said.

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Preoccupied

Posted on July 11, 2021 by Greg Wright

We are the occupiers.

This is the land we possess.
Hollow rings a tribute
to its past stewards,
however noble,
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The Other Greg

Posted on May 16, 2021 by Greg Wright

Greg Fisher and I became friends instantly when I transferred into Thorndyke Elementary School in third grade. Greg had already been at Thorndyke through second grade, the school’s inaugural year, and like most of the school’s other veterans welcomed the transfers from Cascade Elementary. A great many of the kids in Mrs. Bruffy’s third-grade class that year stayed together all the way through graduation from Foster High School, but Greg was one of only a handful–Greg, Stephanie Cortes, Jay Savage, Ron Miyatake–that I can say I consistently stayed close to from “beginning to end.” Continue reading →

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Inappropriation

Posted on May 11, 2021 by Greg Wright

An Australian preferred the limerick
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Gas Station Burger: Out of This World

Posted on April 27, 2021 by Greg Wright

I hold you. Clad in papered foil
(or is it paper foiled?) peeled
back, you slyly reveal the arc
of your sagging bun as we sit
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