Terrestrial Bliss
Heaven is a two-concourse parkway, I know,
I saw it through the glare rising off the parking lot asphalt
And also the glare bouncing off every window
From buildings in the office park or the cars still between the lines
Tag: poetry (Page 13 of 21)
The Jeweler
by Gonzalinho da Costa
Afternoon is a jeweler
Setting hours in gold,
As silver glinting waves
Slap the garnet shore.
Gonzalinho da Costa—a pen name—teaches at the Ateneo Graduate School of Business, Makati City, Philippines. He is a management research and communication consultant. A lover of world literature, he has completed three humanities degrees and writes poetry as a hobby.
COUNTRY BOY RETURNS TO UNIVERSITY
The night stars, I’m going to miss them
light up the dark sky, like Dante’s god.
From here, on this cold hill, it seems
the earth is dark but heaven is bright.
Panic Scenes in a Green Room
Lately my nights are gripped by research
on Christine Chubbuck’s suicide, hers the type
of public spectacle that pits a noxious smell
in the stomach, which I find to be a far-out,
wholly alien emotion responding to the difficulty
of a strange death. Freshly attuned to my own Continue reading
on Christine Chubbuck’s suicide, hers the type
of public spectacle that pits a noxious smell
in the stomach, which I find to be a far-out,
wholly alien emotion responding to the difficulty
of a strange death. Freshly attuned to my own Continue reading
BODIES/BALANCE
by Leah Cappelli
Languishing in a state of dire straits,
he contemplates the rate of his life,
the ways of his strife,
the days and the nights.
An abecedarian learning to speak again
in his most recent reincarnation,
walking fine lines between monstrosity
and virtuousness.
The streets are clogged
with heat and horns
the crash of sliding metal gates
sidewalk steams where it’s been hosed
in the paper
I search for mention of people I used to know
the sun bakes my face
Daughters of Anomaly
(for Traci Lords)
All the cock-sucking,
all the cunt-lapping,
all the butt-fucking
in the world
can’t forge a bond
that lasts beyond
the bounds of flesh and boredom;
time, a river with
Charon waiting
patient as Job,
shuttling busy
as a bee
from bank to bank
carries us all.
old hundredth
a sparrow flit through
the Great White Sanctuary
with august men in suit jackets
and thinning hair
and their wives appropriately uncomfortable
in mauve Manolos and hose. she made laps back and forth,
l an Olympic swimmer
swimming a breaststroke
of pure panic—
“why am I here?” (echoing the thoughts
of us below), and
“how do I get out?” (ditto) thirty feet above,
pacing the giant ovals of glass
cruelly streaming light
on a bright Sunday morning. she alit
on an organ pipe, only briefly
before the explosion of sound
saw her shit
on the organist’s cotta
(a true martyr—he played on)
All the Days After
days pass into weeks
and now even the flowers
are dead, curled brown in their vase like squirrel paws
little hands. I call
my husband
tell him to take
Unyielding
This morning, a hearse refused to
let me in—no room in his damned lane,
or perhaps, his fare held a higher obligation—
a pressing engagement, no doubt.
God knows, the dead can be stiff tippers.
As the driver hauled (cold) ass past,
metallic spikes spun from the center
bore of each twenty-inch rim—a lofty
investment, surely the remnants of a medieval
flail or a morning star now sparing
death from life—either way,
a hell of a lot cheaper than a personalized
license plate: X F K W/ M E.
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