Greg Janetka

Published: November 11th, 2014

Gregory T. Janetka is a writer from Chicago who currently finds himself very out of place in Alabama. His work has been published in Foliate Oak, Flyover Country Review, and Every Writer. More of his work can be found on his blog at . 

Get Out From Under That Table

Die not one death without me.
Do not go anywhere
before seeing me again.
Sit tight and watch to the skies
for any sign that
anything exists outside of us.

Lead yourself away from everything you have ever known and kiss the ground when you get there.
Float along,
not the path that you thought you wanted
but the one you find yourself on.
Sit uncontrollably
and digest the endless fruitful nature
of being
and remember to remember me to anyone you meet.

Sit with clouds and jockey for position
until the winner-take-all system falls
and we all embrace again.

Remember thoughtlessness and heedlessness and sit in closets and set yourself on fire.
Do not for one minute doubt that I will return to you
or ever allow you to hang unwanted ever again.

Two-step with the devil
to places you've only ever dremt of.
There are more wonders than you'll ever see
and isn't that a wonder in itself?

The eyes have it when you're around.

The light caresses you awake
and softly leads you back to me again.

Quiet. Slumber. Awake. Arise.
Be.
Be with your tongue in your teeth
and your hair proudly wrapped
around your neck.

Dissolve with the colors of the leaves
and the stories of our fathers.
Resist resistance and be free.

Transform the sour taste into a childhood memory and put it
somewhere it'll never get lost.
Be at peace.
Be warm.
Cover yourself with happiness and coconut cream.
Sit with me.

Steps. Slow. Frightened. Steps.
Untenantable.
You have walked here years before.
When the lightness of your step matched your heart.
The tunnel to your right goes to the place you want to go most.
The one on your left to the place you need to go most.
Choose neither.

Be soft.
Pretending won't do you any good
but a good sleep can do wonders.

Dig until your fingers are bloody
and the air tastes like earth.
The breeze will sweep away
any resemblance to anyone living or dead
and you will finally be able
to play the piano as you had always hoped.
Won't your mother be proud?

If only they had video cameras here 
then we could capture it for the town's time capsule.
Wouldn't that be night?
Wouldn't that be nice?

To do more that watch
old black and white movies
in your room
with the sound off.
To hear richness and the jingle
of cans in the sidewalk that
Santas must feel after their
fingers have long gone numb.

Sit with the splendor and be alive.
There is no now.
There is nothing.
Be still.
We're all here for you.
Just be still and kiss me.

Notes

Light notes play over my skin,
radiate into my bones
and fill in the cracks,
the sorrows.

Here there is music.
And here there is magic.
Always here. Better make some use of it.

Do not fall prey to wanting and the
even deadlier
wanting to want.
Summer never quite lived up to its promise
and just when it looked like it might,
it ended.

Hanging balloons with my sister
for my father.
Taking pride in my clean, blue walls
and green carpeting.
The sun came in reluctantly,
unsure how it would be greeted.

Let us drift.
Slowly drift
and fade out.

The A Bus

Graying,
it’s shape distorting with each use,
timed to occur with the same routine
and same appearance of something uncapturable.
Years later it would be ruined in a flood
but today it sits unawares of its future.
Carefully underlined, lovingly toted -
a birthday present to himself.

Keep referring in increments;
the days stay the same length,
it is you who speeds up or slows down.
What is sought is recorded where it can’t be read. Ever molding to be found again, its words the same, longing to be read, longing to be a glorified prop in his play acting attempt to win her heart.

The pencil survives. Perhaps it will write her. Perhaps it will write back.
Lazybones, don’t bring that message here; don’t give it a second thought.