The Lightning Room With Gregg Murray

Crawl into the tub with Gregg Murray (poem in Jan. issue) toast each other with a glass of cool lemonade and wait for a bucket of arrogant bunnies to be tossed in with you.

1) Your poem makes me feel like restocking shelves under a droning, florescent light in a grocery store the morning after a one-night stand. Why do I feel that way?

I feel the same way when I read it back to myself. Thankless, meaningless work has never been therapeutic for me. Menial work, being under the boot, taking orders from an imbecile. It hurts me to see interested and capable and talented and spirited people shining the shoes of some arrogant bully with a horse on his shirt.

2) If you were stranded on a desert island and could only have one book of poetry, what book would it be and how would you use it to survive/escape?

I had to wedge a copy of Pride and Prejudice under an a.c. unit one time because it needed something there. At first I felt bad, but I know I like that book a lot and besides I meant no harm or disrespect. I’m so practical, though, with books I love. I’d take a big ole anthology or something for the island. But I love reading journals with experimental work in them. 

3) Where do write most often? 

I mostly write in the bathtub.

4) What is the relation between what you write and how much money you have?

Such a good question. With this poem–and I have a few others like it–I know I’ve reflected on my own meaningless tasks and financial struggles. When I’m worried about basic needs, I have a hard time writing with the same kind of passion and energy and affection for spontaneity.

5) What do you look for in readers of your poetry? Who wouldn’t you like reading your poems?

I’m always appreciative of an audience. Very. It makes me sad when people are confused by my poetry, but I think it does yield more for patient readers who like music and texture. But anyone who likes it is who I want to read it.

6) What don’t you like about your writing?

Some people mistakenly think I am hopelessly depressed. I want to write more poems about bunnies and lemonade, but I’m just not any good at that.