Friday, February 18, 2011

Peter Magliocco: Five

The Eclipse of Love
Take back the light
from the face of time
& what do you get?
The same whiners
wondering where all
the action goes to make
the earth revolve around the sun
until everything is illuminated
by a natural truth, sans
all the internet experts.
Like photosynthesis every day
for all living things --
but somehow humanity avoids it,
preferring an unnatural blindness.
That comfort of lies & illusions
so cleverly bundled into
a daily regimen of speakeasy spiel.
The whore who is my wife on Thursdays
drinks to all this, knowing the twilight of truth
is the best refuge to hide naked in
as her bruises slowly fade
& implanted breasts implode
into that suborbital dysfunction of being,
my unseen
I Don't Need Microwaves Down in New Orleans
Now I have abolished prejudice
from the skin I once wore
over a retinal blemish,
breathing airs of righteousness
with my morning coffee,
espying an aboriginal goodness
even in weeds nourished by sun
still casting thin shadows.
Yet darkness lurks still
around the flooded kitchen I strut in,
a chef for cannibal fare.
Preparing my potluck survivor's supper
it reminds my feathery hands too
of untouchable stains.
A hubris we see in lives troubled
by dead neon's encroachment,
what brings morning down
from pale solar eyes
cooking us.
All things in due time, she announces.
"When the elements of ague consume us
The last martyr will confront you,"
Pointing to a broken clock face
Behind which mold slowly grows.
The minute hand hangs as God's teardrop.
Will you sing at my liberation? she asks.
I swore I saw her years ago, perhaps
in a dream spoiled by sleeplessness.
When we were both texting at mid-terms?
But now recognizing my female double
threatens my manhood's last vestige.
She tells me that I'm her "sex robot,"
expensively made by digital engineering,
& she's been waiting a long time for me.
"Hi Jesus," she purrs, kissing my cheek.
on Buk's birthday, 1994
oyster pearls toll on tongues of deceivers
aging through the long night
of Hollywood malaise
no one dances yet to the funeral march
of Rock stars, there is no truth
but the holy lie told (again
& again) by the chiefs of state
searching for sex tapes
implicating all in media treason,
someone must light a candle
before dawn unfolds now
over the striated corpus
perfunctory literature becomes
in the wake of his passing
with self-portrait of wino & jug
betting on the vulgar muse
before throwing up
in the face of
Asymtomatic Bloodlines
Where are incendiary ruins of our city
Grooming the stones of yesteryear
What stinks in miasma's splendor
of everyday commerce now
Still roils in more felonious details
Of existence tethering us, like victims
To those unsavory facts of being
Persons with fraudulent hearts
& minds educated by game shows
They watch gamely in hospital
Hellish waiting rooms
Tepid with innumerable diseases
Waiting like emissaries on bad days
There you are the insane fanatic
Drinking blood from medical pouches
Stolen like Mother's morgue remains
I recycled into an edible commodity
For all the hungry geeks not
Tired of last food dining
-- Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, where he's edited the lit-zine ART:MAG for over 20 years. He's had recent poetry in SCYTHE, GOLD DUST, HEELTAP, SCARS, A HUDSON VIEW POETRY DIGEST and more. He was Pushcart Prize nominated for poetry in 2010. His latest chapbooks are Nude Poetry Garage Sale (Virgogray Press) and The Heaven of Words (Propaganda Press).

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