He told me to hook up with the hangman, hang and get the lay of the land,; I did and now there’s nothing more to do than cross the river with him in tow. He was a real mystery maker with that mask of his, now there’s not much left of him. He’s not even worth the myths made in dime store Western novels. The air around the hangman is starting to go bad and my cologne isn’t doing much to help the situation. When I started out on this crossing my only concern was for the free lunch on the other side, but now that my stomach is starting to turn I’m not sure that I’ll be able to hold down the cold cuts and coleslaw that they promised would be laid out for my arrival.. I’m a real sucker. They’re going to get my labor cheap. Here I am, going across as straight as I can and they probably never planned on playing it straight on their end of the line. They know what’s up. I bet you that they never even went to the supermarket to get the fixings for the picnic they promised me. I wish that I had a slaughter house hunger, so that this would be worthwhile. I just need to get this job done, no matter what it costs me. I think that I’m going to lose my breakfast. This journey is going to end with me in the hole. I’m not even sure how I’m going to make it back across the river once this job is done. I never discussed that particular with them when I signed on.
John Greiner is a writer living in Queens, NY. He was educated at the New School for Social Research. Greiner’s work has appeared in Sand Journal, Empty Mirror, Sensitive Skin, Unarmed, Street Value and numerous other magazines. His books of poetry include Turnstile Burlesque (Crisis Chronicles Press) and Bodega Roses (Good Cop/Bad Cop Press). His collaborative work with photographer Carrie Crow has appeared at the Tate Liverpool, the Queens Museum and in galleries in New York, Los Angeles, Venice, Paris, Berlin and Hamburg.