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.