By: Jason Visconti
A Confusion Of Streetlights
Houdini leaves his trick puzzling at the cross,
The merry-go-round of light has found a wheel,
A stray wheel jerked through miles tended to or lost,
Red and green soldiers who’ve strayed from their field,
The players of this theater a scriptless cast.
The Yard Is No Longer There
What’s left is one coiling of iron,
Barbwire nagging at your eyes,
The clouds struggle for shapes like unprepared mimes,
The sunset but a meltdown of youthful times,
A ball sweeps through a hoop with the sense of sand.
What The Proverb Writer Must Know
To climb up a tree is to slash a stroke of ink,
To shake out its leaves is to lose a line,
The tree falls and you may be on meaning’s brink,
Dead in the forest is how it’s signed,
A giant carcass has its own sad ring.
Because The Murderer Loves Rainbows
Because the murderer loves rainbows a strand of color bleeds,
Because he is pleased by clouds his rifle-arm drifts,
Because he worships the moon his solitude is fed,
Because he questions the stars his alibis shift,
The sunset and he camp in exquisite arrest.
When the God has printed out the final questionare,
When the angels right me like a misplayed chord,
When the moon is comprehended for why it stood,
I know why I’m not a flower somewhere out there,
Even when budding-season gives up its buds.
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