You’re on the other


being abstract, acting



I have a stack of

thoughts in front of me,

unfinished; have poems to

write, poems I

should be writing; instead


I’m writing this; an


alarm goes off, it’s mine


Saturday morning, you’re

laying around somewhere,

Cootie Williams is blowing

Gator Tail; I shut the blinds


and the world outside

goes on and on and about

and out without me,


this poem is running, jazz is

dead, so are all those jazz

men playing, dead, but time doesn’t

make sense anyway; it’s

just going in circles, stealing

what it can,


which is everything,


we aren’t friends; I can’t see the



I’m hiding from the sun.


by Thomas Pescatore


Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia dreaming of the endless road ahead, carrying the idea of the fabled West in his heart. 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.

Listed at Duotrope
Listed with Poets & Writers
CLMP Member
List with Art Deadline
Follow us on MagCloud