Peter Grieco. Eighteenth Reply.

3 Feb


leather faces
hardened into granite—

sparkplugs in the sandstone

plundering ourselves opaque—
gloves off

a hijacked foundation of petri dishes
cascading over old burial grounds

isomers fitted onto
millions of billions of moons
that die when you close your eyes—

drowning leeches in gasoline—
the few, the far-between

legs boiled over with black holes
for the death of light in the mountains—

a microscopic scaffold—
fermenting in the
of dank dwellings

Peter Grieco. Out Route 62.

1 Feb

Out Route 62

We just do it, we just live. However
much thought we put into it hardly seems
worth it. But why not? Because the streams are
too many & there’s no keeping up, with
everything running wild. What happened
just yesterday, sunlight catching at the
raspberries—every red thread of life turns
out thinner than we think, a paradise
for insects perhaps, the great shadow of
the earth mostly unseen.

Those berries stain
us, our fingers & our jeans like there’s a
bloody body left hidden in the green
rows behind us & all around us. I
don’t mean to suggest fear, but there’s
mystery left in everything familiar.
The great gift. The absurd billboard, right there,
promoting fatherhood, when what really
would be better is a good car washing.

Stephen Scott Whitaker. End of the World and a Cup of Coffee.

30 Jan

End of the World and a Cup of Coffee

Everyone loves a fresh start;
which is why apocalypse looks so inviting.
Something better than buying and spending,
and being so angry all the time.

Tidelawn, salt grey pines, roads disappearing
under all that water.
That too, a kind of spending.
Can the Dutch save us? I have doubts.

If there’s no food or bee hum grain
at least the ammunition will beam
under the earwax candlelight.
I take my clean slate with coffee and a meeting

while the outside world turns over itself.
When I say world, I mean people.
It’s like that old teacher joke:
You know what’s wrong with public school?

The public.

Be Human. Brighten.

24 Jan

Eight Weeks. Speak Low if You Speak Love.

22 Jan

Stephen Scott Whitaker. Chase.

21 Jan


for Nate

Shotgun pellets rattle oak, thin thunder aches beyond
the miles.
Storms smells ripen. Two of us turn left,
the other three have cracked the bamboo,
but they will leave trails, a wide broken swath, and blood
cut from sawgrass growing between.
What did you say?
Before the strike broke over the sky? Safe is the country
that outlaws make?
What pounding blood marches
in the ears, what pounding. The girl and I duck low.

The crack of rifles repeat, and repeat.
Thunder fattens
and enlarges.
Break for the reeds,
duck down below sight lines.
Crawl, crawl, crawl until water laps and licks at your skin.

The marshes, the marshes.
Once boats took me to work.
I fish in the rolling vowels, no more, no more.
What fed us will hide us till dawn. Follow the marshmud shore
till the channel opens up. No roads lead down the channel.
They cannot follow.
Keep your knife close, breathe through the mouth
when the rot roils up. Low tide is dangerous, for the marshes
give up secrets. What will come of us, I cannot say.
When I was a child I feared the dark. In the chase
it is the mark of safety, the equalizer, the truth all men know.

A scream waffles through a glottis port, a throat is dying,
dying on the run. The girl with me pauses mid step,
a breath, a breath.
To rest is to risk, to rest is to give up.
I feel her heart in her wrist, and we stop for air.

We have become dumb fish, to stop moving is to die.

I’ll Love You Someday. The Technicolors.

20 Jan


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