Peter Magliocco

Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, NV, where he’s been active in the small presses for years as writer, poet, and editor (of the lit-‘zine ART:MAG). His new poetry book is The Underground Movie Poems (Horror Sleaze Trash).

Outside the Scorched Gazebo

Hello Earth Mother, let the seed take root                                                         
                  in its desire for you:    an isolated purging                                                                                          
                  of the path blocking you  
                  from grasping the daily ellipsis                                                                                                 
                  your thoughts sink into. Watery drops of catharsis.
Thoughts hovering before an unshed tear                                                                                         
                  from mountains rising up                                                                                                        for the great deluge, after watching
the real housewives of cuckolds, Inc. take you

To a place you have longed to escape.                                                                                               
                  Opt for the metaphysical cancer anyway,                                                                         
stay in that strange alcove weeds surround                                                                                              all strewn with cigarette butts (amid the scant poinsettia),                                                                     never picked up by your chain-smoking                        
                   daughter from the scorched gazebo, right?

Wait then for the bad seed to die:                                                                            
                    wait for the remission to reopen you                                                                                                          again, while I sing, It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue                                                                                    during the quarantine, on You Tube.

Forget the uprooted ones you’ve left                                                                                                  
                    their bodies wasted by asexual devouring                                                                           
                    with your plants writhing, what the earth                                                                            
                    still holds firm.

Before the Dogs Bring Down the Zoo

O Sister, they take from want of you                                                                                                         
             with blind men’s fury                                                                                                              
             to scrape veneer off the pixel image                                                                         
             of your face reading the news.

They stoke the fires of corporate deceit                                                                                               
in fibrillating hearts of the body politic                                                                                             hanging on your every word.                                                                                                               
You denounce America’s corrupt society,                                                                                               
               warning the disbelievers                                                                                                          
of the coming cataclysm:

The color of human skin will darken                                                                                                   beyond the monochromatic mind-sets of

those downplaying racial injustice                                                                                                       
              on playgrounds of slime                                                                                                    
where the damned keep masquerading                                                                                     
              As born-again police;                                                                                                               
for the facts are a slippery slope, you say                                                                                         leering into the camera’s eye                                                                                                                                   before signing off,                                                                                                                    
later chastising the hypocritical dog owner                                                                                                           poop-littering the zoo.

           Night becomes day, flesh becomes spirit                                                                                 
           in the shape of things to come 
                           the bright flowers of pandemic evil    
                           encircle our necks

           Like a noose-necklace                                                                                                                                                of colorless bondage

Tomorrow Will Be a Forgotten Memory

For this innerness                                                                        where is the body?                                                                                -- Rilke                                                                                
In the ganglia of the rich lurks Shiva                                                                                                      
               peddling a new liturgy for all those 
                           who have lost faith in Amazon or Mr. Trump                                         
                                          Forgotten as mad marauding mayhem                                             
                                          perhaps, burning the Stars & Stripes                                                                           
                                                        beyond the Covid-19 slaughterhouse                                                                 of ravaged bodies 
                                                                             where the death counts mount daily                                                                                          lungs are cross-ventilated from oblivion                                                                                              as the medicos seek 
for the perfect vaccine                                                                                     your ex-lover 
imbibed after the saliva test                                                                                       
knowing she’s positive as hell                                                                                                 
I offer her a marijuana edible                                                                                                              
              later to soften her omnipresent anxiety:                                                           
                             “It’s much worse in India, you know   
                                         the mortality rate is off the charts.”     
                                                     Driving her home, passing the protesters  
                                                                    for Black Lives Matter, she blurts out                                                                      how she hates the women-hating rappers                                                                                           who she believes are blocking my old Mazda.                                                                        
Does it matter who’s positive or negative now?                                                                                   Days will pass into the quantum black hole                                                                                                
               of evolutionary extinction                                                                                                        where humanity is a forgotten relic, I think,                                                                                    
               just as Dad calls on my cell to ask                                      
                the name of his now deceased only son                      
                at the unchanging red traffic light.     

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