The Piston GateMood was only a beginning the first word of a new chapter the arc and wash of it as if they dreamed of cleanliness again a curtained register obscured by clouds across this wasteland distance * * * * * * * she provided a diagnosis which it seemed had sucked them into something resembling tenderness it was not the time or the place for other shards of consequence “this is not our time” they repeated as the light turned golden * * * * * * * did she understand the knifing pain the knowing pain that dragged him from the earthy bonding of mud into the shrieking scream of birdsong it was a sound that needed to be heard before he buried himself behind the piston gate. FloodwatersAngry waters which clothe the forgotten valley bringing wonder to the churning sky once it freezes again there will be no more light * * * * * * * a child came with a flag a flag that trembled in the morning winds a flag with clouds resplendent with acorns and a hint of rosemary * * * * * * * everything here relates to difference dreaming itself into a schoolyard that grows into a concrete motherhood that grows into solitude into a space for only children * * * * * * * there is a possibility within that space there are children external to its borders * * * * * * * the rushing of water reminds you that childhood is danger but motherhood is the actual fact of terror your love has finally set the world ablaze. Unable to ScreamPlasma is leaking from frozen sleep leaking into solidity filling the emptiness with lavender we slept beneath the decaying cycle of the moon crumbling slowly into a sorrowing segmentation water had had leached from arsenic basements from the careless corrosion of white lead pipes the river blackening your jeans gold braiding stitched and locked into its dream space a pack of dogs had followed the trail of blood their snouts awash with the mystery it foretold the only crime was the lack of a crime the visible farce that succumbed to a preferential identity such sounds now trapped in the bones of our throats our screams developed as whimpers. The Night is Merely ResidualI will harvest the nightly crop facing the window’s panes in silent anticipation I will be the one who carries love who drinks from boneless cups who disappears between two-sided light I will be the shape of a jaw the curve beneath an armpit the speed at which our lines are fastened I will offer once again the blood that floods my organs as irrigation for your soil as the green riverglass is melting and the war is finally ending and pain has dissolved into sadness lost within this twilight. Speak of Inside/Speak of OutsideSpeak of an arrival a reversal of blindness speak of a sound that is no sound a reverberation of silence that pulsates within the emptiness the fog of not knowing becomes the joy of recognition breaking free to daybreak from another overnight of tethering from sadness and weather tea is passed in china cups beneath the seeded birches by men with teeth who are trained in the art of bruising each china man with peach in hand speak again of a sunken anchor dragging nets beneath the mottled surface the soap-scum surface of green aquatic of pure plasticity and regret the refugee has lost track of his wisdom exiled upon the fragmentary islands trapped within the blasted wastes of nettle and burdock adrift from facts speak at last of the unconvincing retreat the metal ranks of military statuesque despite their fallen dignity as time winds slowly down dying on their feet. A/Cross HistorySherlock Holmes was a spiritualist in history was a player of the violin according to our drifting legends of time that pay no attention as to his physical reality so long as his face appears in mind floating above the Ouija board of centuries passing slowly downstream * * * * * * the British were unable to distinguish peace from war and so they slaughtered native peoples in their millions guns or cannons fire or disease any method was acceptable so long as the freedom of capital exchange was never impeded such godliness revealed by finance * * * * * * Jesus drives past in the back of a long black limousine surrounded by law enforcement the secret service alert to every motion peripheral or blatant no solitary gunman ever breaking their chain their dreams of open skies and earthy reflections on a different path never taken. A Knot of SnakesThe forest is a child but we are unable to recognize it as such * * * * * * only the sky is truly ancient passing itself off as a parable as a diamond studded window every pane of glass a complex of crystalline structures of regulated patterns * * * * * * the sun flashing its signals whispering along the trails glancing off the branching appendages of birchwood to where the silent lake awaits beneath its flickering surface * * * * * * we thought we had invented an allegory about creation itself an iterative excavation a disinterring of cindered parts that blackly peered through muddy layers of leaf mold * * * * * * a field where snakes thrived upon the remnants of discarded picnics upon our heritage. Evolution vs RevolutionDreams may be subdued by chemicals but life burst through into the cloudscape of morning a dream of vessels sailing throughout a night a dream of spinnakers and halyards a dream of greenery that draws the moisture from the depths a dream of insects their mirrored panels shining like blades a shine of silver under floodlights * * * * * * * the world was clearly changing the sun fell forty times and never rose again the birds were listening for the light listening on the wavelength of a dream the birds were dreaming alchemy and murder the beasts were dreaming fear and hatred the sun was listening from a lower level beneath a shimmer of horizon * * * * * * * stillness exists beneath the rain buildings are burning to the ground translucency is a metaphor but the ocean is never ending * * * * * * * dreaming of contingency lost in music dreaming of wood and wire and the tension in a waveform dreaming of paralysis and chains dreams are blocked by chemicals as the world rejects a transplant heart. Poet and songwriter Paul Ilechko is the author of three chapbooks, most recently “Pain Sections” (Alien Buddha Press). His work has appeared in a variety of journals, including The Night Heron Barks, Rogue Agent, Ethel, Lullwater Review, and Book of Matches. He lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ.
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