Oyster Boy Review 18  
  Winter 2003–4
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» Levee 67


Three Poems

Jonathan Greene

Recollections of Bass Rhythms of Hip-hop
Heard from a Distant Van

Right about the time
bats in the eaves
bed down for day,
the birds at dawn
start to carry on

while soon

drivers deaf
to the green world
try with their woofers
to dominate the pulse
of the world.

The Death of a Christian Martyr

. . . then knocked to the ground,
I lay bloody and beaten.
Still a calm came upon me
in the midst of the clamor of battle
and I was at peace.

Then someone noticed
my eyes move
and with a burning finger
opened my chest and
cut out the ruby muscle,
held it aloft in momentary triumph
then threw it on the ground
in disgust, and moved on.

My heart beat on
for some time,
but the small miracle
went unnoticed
and finally dust covered its purity
like flour breading meat.

Come Again

Have I been here before?
the switchback road
says to itself,
snaking down the flank
of Black Mountain.

Sometimes one has to
get lost, go in every
direction, to find
the clear spring
of home.