Grips

 

You seem to be falling out,

like fading away, playing

fool/goof/phantom/drunken joke

to grown up little boys and girls

across sad broken south Philly homes

that chug and churn like the machines

of the past regurgitating old

memories onto old faces and wrinkles

of the mourning night too

close to sunrise to remember—

too locked in twisted horns

with dead things, meaningless things

that need to be let go— a drowning

universal truth slugging its way

at your temple—a a a—

just to let you down and you brood about

these things that can’t change

next to open window and open veins,

when you’re supposed to be the one

that lives and blazes and burns—

 

Incoherently I’m incoherent

137 miles in hell and away

like fading rivers pulled under heavy roads

of gray dawns—I’m connecting these thoughts

drying out—

 

You seem to be losing your grip

on where your reality resides—

 

 

 

Some Change for the Time Man

 

Anchor me down with the past…

I’m a floating helium-centric

goon of the heavens babbling

incoherent love songs to the sick—

oh well, it was a mighty cause

when I fought it, when I remembered

what it was, but now I’m ground

up in old groundhog day

senility starting 8 hours behind

the sun and escaping into the night

only to sleep never to live

never to live—I’m a lay about—

society bites me, keeps me moving,

I’ve fallen so far from my feet—

they’re dragging toward the gorge,

an endless plastic coffin filled

to the brim with only the faces

I’ve known, the ones with

concentric circles spinning round their

golden heads—that’d be us Joe—but

they stick the swords to our backs and the

planks vibrate to the frequency

of the queen’s machine—

there’s no footing, there’s no branch

only falling—

 

Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia dreaming of the endless road ahead, carrying the idea of the fabled West in his heart. He maintains a poetry blog: amagicalmistake.blogspot.com. His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally but he’d rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old Skid Row. His chapbooks Trapped in the Night and A Magical Mistake are forthcoming in 2013.

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