Poetry by Justin Groppuso-Cook

              Matthew Robinson CC




​​LULL ABIDE BYE BLUES

We were children, glint of bright eyes, taking tests.
                                               Just learning to flirt those Friday nights

at Element, the local church, indulging
                                                in pizza & prayer, dodgeball, the gaming 

room. Our worship of screamo, piercing vocals,
                                                distorted guitars & glittering synths—so 

caught up in the stage, gleaming. But who knew
                                                how this sparkle could turn: strung out

in the frequency of fluorescence, gasping
                                                from phantom cigarettes on a basement floor.

The residue on spoons & bitten fingernails. O to crush
                                                & be crushed. What a wonderful world

of despair. I sat with her in her loneliness;
                                                we met on Halloween. Started to date, only 13.

It was okay that she was high—she was 
                                                prescribed. Doctor’s orders. Did they know 

the sickness they induced? I soon found out. 
                                                The youth consumed in trending depression, 

fed in the depths of radio static; waves catering 
                                                 to the depravity of suburban blocks. We carved

our names in slabs of concrete, the backdrop 
                                                 of industrious ruin. With blush on her cheeks, 

she lured me in, calling from the basement. 
                                                 Pinned me like a luna moth for her display 

case; I couldn’t reach the light. There was no
                                                  consent. She said: To have the bliss & beauty

you want, you have to have the strength
                                                  to endure it. So she fed me the sickness:

Ambien, Percocet, Dilaudid, Xanax, Trazodone, 
                                                  Dramamine, Coricidin Cough & Cold. I helped

her get them from her mother’s safe. Picked
                                                  the lock with a paperclip, not knowing what

I had unleashed. She smacked me till it felt
                                                   like sunburn. Spit on my face. Put cigarettes

out on my wings. I threw up all over, over
                                                   myself. Witnessed static circle ceiling tiles

buzzing. She hammered needles into my lips:
                                                  Quiet now. You will know what it’s like to be

Jesus. At the very least, she freed me to dig
                                                   my own grave. Is there such a thing as make-

believe? I chose the cemetery, near the play-
                                                   ground where we first made out. I made sure 

that it was deep, between the rusted jungle 
                                                   gym & merry-go-round; dandelion fluff 

swirled in the air. Bled myself dry like bone,
                                                    sawdust. Left no headstone for my memory. 

Coated the earth with chrysanthemum, petals 
                                                     of toé pink & white, nicotiana rustica, & stone 

pine. Scattered the dust of my wings atop, 
                                                     antennas splintered. I then was lowered. 

I put razor blades upon my eyelids—a hollow 
                                                      tip above, aimed at the sky. Planted a seed in-

to my navel as she buried me. In ash. In the butts 
                                                       of her Newports. Powders of crushed pills. 

In yesterday’s trash: plaster, asphalt, gravel,
                                                       the shattered glass of vodka bottles, a bedazzled 

syringe. Topped it off with the blood of her 
                                                       moon, cackling. Sealed it all in plastic wrap held 

in place by paper parasols. At the very least, 
                                                       the overgrown grass wept with morning dew, 

glimmering. Three days dragged unto decades. 
                                                       This must be what Heaven feels like, I thought, 

               & in the softness, deadening, the katydids called back.





​CRACK LIGHTER
              for Matt Smiley

Bought it at the gas station
on the corner
of Chalmers & Warren.
Thought it only cost you
a dollar. It’s a damn
shame you feel
so ashamed. Your bed
like a dumpster
you lay yourself to rest in--
but you will not go gently

for you rage. Lighter on high
to torch the crevices,
to torch the heavens.
A burnt out bulb:
light coiling resin, juice
fresh out of desperation.
You don’t look right

into my eyes but to the earth
you know will sweep you 
up. Turn your blues
into a purple reign,
my thousand-petalled
king. Here’s how:

we’ll post up in the trap
till the early light. Play
Dominoes & Spades
& best the dealer
at his own game
in his own house. Pull
Big 6 at every turn.
Call deuces wild

& witness the bids fall 
in our favor as the bags
beneath his eyes 
pile up. Our possessions,
these demons,
think that we are trapped— 
but we are trump, &
they will find they are 
the ones who have 
been tricked.​

​

Justin Groppuso-Cook is a Writer-in-Residence for InsideOut Literary Arts Project as well as a Teaching Artist for Living Arts Detroit. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Luna Luna Magazine, Rust + Moth, and Glass: A Journal of Poetry among others. He received a 2015 Pushcart Prize nomination for his work featured in Duende. In 2022, he will be a resident at Carve Magazine’s Writing Workshops Paris. More information can be found on his website, www.sunnimani.com.

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