None, Vacant & Other Poems

None.

Blue seashells over my eyes I call them coins

leave them under the gravestones

that like the old man's teeth

rot in long lines lisping

out old vague drunken songs I don't wish to recall

whatever words were written in our past

I am not connected to the tears that are escaping

from these shells

I want to become the ridges

become the gradients of color on the outside

I no longer wish to pay for living with my sight

Vacant.

conch shell thunder in my ear

hanging from a headphone wire

the empty soundless waves

the coiled marks in the sand

voices rushing up against my eyes

the blackness that comes with setting sun

a constant mirage of images

hollow thoughts refusing a response

isolation against the static storm

Pumice.

we can not discern the meaning;

standing in the rain outside your window

doing this to myself

soaking my clothes

not wanting to go home

hoping you wouldn't come downstairs

looking for reconciliation

misunderstanding loss

like in some movie decaying on old film

could it have been ten years ago and more?

I have done the impossible thing; I have moved on

i wear a hat outside when it’s clear

you write poems about rain

like it's always raining;

i want to live in the rain but

it is always too wet;

at some point you seek shelter

to warm your drenched skin

but you only catch a chill;

i want the sun to watch the rain

the clouds look too somber;

i can only tell it's raining

by watching the pond boil;

i take my hat off and stare into the sky

the rain is invisible until it covers my face

Further study required

in the wake of forwarded emails

the monitors rose like plastic crosses

each groan of ascension was an echo

a stalled car catching below my window

dyed concrete in the parking lot

the little blue dots unhinged

moved through location space

they had found the white lined way

to predict their destination

they flattened out to become an umbilical cord

a line defined by beginning and end

untethered to skullfaced sockets

there would be no mortality

organic life would begin with cybernetic eyes

glimpsed through application of screen to body

body to settings settings to soul

Tom Pescatore can sometimes be seen wandering along the Walt Whitman bridge or down the sidewalks of Philadelphia's old Skid Row. He might have left a poem or two behind to mark his trail. He claims authorship of a novel the Boxcar Bop (RunAmok Books, 2018) and the poetry travel journal Go On, Breathe Freely! (Chatter House Press, 2016). His Twitter is @TCPescatore and his Instagram is @the_rodman_mythos.