End of October

night tumbles
blue-gray gently
over orange glowing
sky, facing west
sun glides burning
sinking blazing
toward horizon line
lights up what's left
of daylight in bonfire
heavenly holiness,
autumn nights come
earlier, last longer,
chilly and cool,
dark-like endless,
there's a new idea
on fallen leaves
scattering under gray
lifeless street signs,
a great void speaking,
whispered and ancient
calling after time.

Angel

There ain't no moon
                             tonight,
darling, no clouds
                             tonight,
angel, I can see
                             tonight,
love, the infinite
                             tonight,
and I'm brooding
                             tonight,
silently wondering
                             tonight,
how we're both here
                             tonight,
somehow lonesome,
                             tonight,
in all this darkness
                             tonight,
repeating mistakes
                             tonight,
and I won't hear you
                             tonight,
asking questions
                             tonight,
where am I going
                             tonight,
where are we
                                         ?

Now I'm stealing titles

tossing them on floors
with the rest of the shit
that won't stick on the walls,
won't go anywhere,
doesn't belong anywhere.
I'm stealing titles
wrecking my keyboard
tearing up the keys,

I don't type so fast anymore,
I've noticed I have less to say--

I'mrunningdry--

looking anywhere for a deeper
go-between for a score,
in the meantime I'll play
the literary break-in,
employ the thieves,

much has been written about me
in the future,

a big name--

I've seen it--

just don't know if I'll make it there
before I'm gone.

Cheers

Last day of gray skies
I'll try to make
it--but the space bar
is spent no action
from the right side
no selling my taps
bent on backspace
backspace repetition--
not much left to do
but drown in anonymity,
right? write for the finish--
I said that once, write for the
very, write to the bitter end--
there's nothing left,
nothing more meaningful
than the word--
so get fucking going,
go on--

It's been two--three weeks...

He rocks back and forth
by the curb's edge
hands clasped on his knees,
big slack jawed grin
under eyes like a blue sky,

"you know they're
injecting them with that
virus there, the C-D-C!" he goes,
"that's how they do it, you'll
see, we'll be hearing about it,
you know, the highways
are like a wall in Houston
(he shows 6 fingers) they got
a wall 6 miles--yeah--6 miles
and another 12 (he shows 10
then two more finger) miles
out--they're boxing us in!"

a guy drops some change
in his cup moving out from
behind me so I can't get a look
except for his back and the
impression of a grey tailored suit,

"you watch yourself," he waves,
"they don't want us to think!"

You too, I tell him
turning to go,
I take a look back
after I cross the street,
he's rocking back and forth
still, one hand on his knee
the other waving an old dixie cup,

there's a cop at the corner opposite,
a squad car rolling down the block,
somebody absently touches
the handle of a gun,
crowds of blank faces
multitudes of empty eyes,
the next day I pass by,
he's no longer there,
replaced by white sign outlined
in red:

"No parking 10/17 for street cleaning"

So, this is where we've ended up?

these halls are rare everyday halls
wielding pitchfork meant to stick
in our backs,
                     they draw hot, pink blood,
birth flashes and implant false memories.

this is all you
will ever be
it has been
decided.

be quick on your feet,
we operate in pockets of
immateriality drowning
each moment,

"society is dependent on
ego-protection," she
said to me, as she walked
off the platform into
oncoming trains,

the officer at the scene
told me not to think too
much about it, grasping
my wrist, doctors offered
me pills, wrote my
visions down before
devouring them.

I wiped my shoes at the front door,
faint sounds and echoes in the red brick
alleyway adjacent,
                              murmurs without time or place,
 crumpled soldiers returning from imaginary wars.

Climbing

I.
A short
rainbow sprinkled
madness

run from
the drone
of hallucination

spy the mountaineer
in high wool socks,
shibuya boots lined
in red, heavy pack,
red bandanna,
leaning forward
peers over edge
one foot raised to peak,

"it's in your head,
 this vision."

II.
a falling pebble
clacks on cliff side
drops 7000 feet

where it lands
where it came from

there's no difference

life is life.

III.
thoughts
gouge out
circles in your
mind

indifferent glances
toward the ground

there are rocks
in your gut
emitting light

Spam in Spam Alley

THese Are THe SPam
poems
sent directly to your
recycling bin
UNread

SOmetimes
there's a man standing
in the rain
on cold fall nights
his wife is hurling
curses, indistinguishable
words, unattainable
promises,

I wonder what it
takes to sit and type
those emails all day, or
what computer program
randomly generates
them,

a lifeless
bent shadow heads
down the alleyway
shifts suddenly, almost
sadly, disappears,

I type a hurried
response, send
without signing
my name,

a female voice drones on
into the night,
no returning footsteps,
only emptiness,
the vacuumed
spaces in between,
and no ears but mine
listening,

[Error: Mail could not be delivered]

Watch television on your phone

screens lined up,
they pace behind,
dressed in army
fatigues threads
of net neutrality,
listen! Hammer
pulled back,
click of old rusted
metal (we forget how
reality feels) slam,
a sickening life-like
sound, gun--shatters
over mute settings,
ringing fiber-
optic nightmare
one by one prisoners
lurch forward
brain matter anti-matter
spilling on granny
elevator floors,
a million tv audiences
cry out and silence,
sound travels slowly
so we all type out--

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

they've got models
living in camera-ed rooms
filling screen time,
Hollywoodland time,
reality mojo,
through inner-tube
highways broadcasting
their life force across
miles and cityscapes into
your unlit living room
everyone showing
white sad walls,

you can't help
thinking is that how
we live

but you
can't think it,

it's not allowed,
it's just sex and I'm the star she
says before she takes
out her dick
and before you realize
you've made it to the
wrong room,
made it with the wrong girl,
she's got the gun out
from behind her
cybernetic overcoat
and this window
is gone too,

the virus has evolved
language and pictures
aren't safe

the global village is a lie

it's an execution
of the soul

7,000,000,000 views
7,000,000,000 likes

click to view.

How I intended it

all words die

on books never opened

in darkened corners

covered in cobwebs,

damp with mildew,

spilling worms,

all writers are 

meant to be
forgotten,

obscured by

anonymity 

or in fame,
poverty or
riches--

to be the 

only thing that

remains, or

to be nothing--

words 

scrawled 

on grave

stones,

slowly 

eroding

like the 

body

like the 

mind

desperately

fading,

failing

black ink,
abyss,
oblivion.

Plum St.

I think about it,
going back there,
turning left at the house
with the teal shingles,
walking down that quiet street
and finding that little
duplex and its square parking lot
in back, stuck between single homes,
I imagine I'd stand at the
edge of the grass on the front
lawn and look up to the second floor,
into those windows I can't quite
remember, fearful of taking another
step and slipping back there
into childhood and the past,

I can see the little circular kitchen table,
at the end of yellowed tile,
wood box tv set in the corner where
my dad hid a toy he'd gotten me
in a paper bag, the tweed couch facing
it,

my big orange cat shuffles
down the hallway, the same one
he'd run so fast through that
he'd take a few steps along
the wall,

Mom is everywhere, I can't
manage one single memory
but that the whole house was
her,

I'd turn from the house,
never touching one blade of
grass and head to the park at
end of street where once I'd hit
a lightning bug with a baseball
bat, swinging and watching
his light and life trail off into
the darkness,

I am still cursed, I have
still not forgiven--

then I'd sit there maybe,
sit there alone, I'm not sure
what else I'd do, what
else I'd see,

I've grown old,
I've gone away,
I can't even hold onto memories.

Your leg resting on mine

I am awake

watching the
shadow of
blinds
stretched
elongated
deformed
spread
across
ceiling

I see an idea
in its pale
existence,
its almost-
never-there
shape,

the night is on to something,
in streaks and bleary
light, in reflections
catch the rain,

it's
moving in the
right
direction.

Evermore, Everlasting

is there such a thing?
                                  you grind your teeth as
                                         you fall asleep
                                         a foot under cover
                                         a foot out
or nothing?
                     I am naked beside you
                             hands under chest
                             on my stomach
                             eyes facing you
will it ever end?
                          milky way spiral big dipper
                                     sound in the night
                                     dark and restless angel
                                     of the far gone away
or is there never ever?
                                     holding a torch for you
                                                  burning at the edge
                                                  unburdened by space
                                                  untouched by time    

The Blue Line

watch blue line
on map move like
marker 'cross
cuts and daggers
ridges of stone,

tan/yellow/green
moves around
gray/red/blue
impassable objects,

line swings down
and takes in the
grand old mysterious
south, foggy in our
child's eye,

oh, those places we
haven't been!

that golden sun
bakes the earth
that dark, dark night
of my dreams,

what's out there, hey?

what's there left to find?

where the wheels go next
my body follows

down
down

ah, great abyss,

falling
falling

650 pages

the
collected
works
of
Tom
Pescatore
an
obscure
and
relatively
ignored
poet
who
wrote
in
the
early
21st
century.

He
published
nothing
of
merit
or
of
literary
importance
or
 relevance
and
died
unknown.

His
impact
on
American
poetry
is
still
up
for
debate
though
most
scholars
seem
to
agree
that
he
had
none.

you can never go home, but everyone goes home in October

there, a
black furred squirrel
finds the right
side of the street,
twists up for sale sign,

rain falls in drizzles

not really touching
ground,

scent of
pumpkin patches
and wet clothes

gray sky
gray cars
little girl with
gray eyes
gray memories

in a coffee cup
mimics the sky

and clouds drift
cough float heavy
above the earth

gray bodies
gray minds

there's something
reassuring in it's
bleakness

something real.

Listen, Listen

voices

from the street

invisible bodies

whisper
under half-moon
shadow
of three-pronged
tower
memorial

rustle of hands
objects
sounds on inside
of car
leather seats

door slams

engine turns

foot steps on concrete
creaking metal
door swings
car swings into gear

muted sounds
of the hallway
fading sounds
of tires crunching

now silence

for a moment

too short,
broken by roar
of plane

followed by another
and another

grumbling and shaking
the night--

This poem is finished

scroll up

dear god

my toenails are
growing too fast
too brittle
aged

not yellowed yet

I can't think of disfigurement
of any kind--

I vomited in doctors
office thinking of
throat cancer, eyes
tearing stomach raging,

it was only
tonsillitis,

cleared up with
steroids rest gatorade--

 think of growing old
skin wrinkled
eyes grayed with cataracts,
back bent
body leaning on cane
deep black and blue bruises
true bruises that reach to
bone, dying bones
old bones,

mind roams

pain pushed into
every life seeping corner,

I must remain
now
and never go

remind myself not
to lose my body
my image of it,

weeks go by and
I am different,
hair growing
knees sore,
mind slower,

what is next,
I don't know,

maybe I've already begun
to misplace it,

fuck,

I can't even think of
the word,

I scroll up but
the poems finished--

Arrow to the 'eart

Here

am
     I
       as
           a
           babe in the
                             woods
           with fog roll
           in
        as
      I
am

Here

sunk to the bone
powder
white
decay

these sounds won't cease!

jet rumble
faraway floods

Here

I
  am
        someone else
        someone lost
   am
I

ever going to see it?
through
thick
orange
dust

gawking

the sound of night
shatters the earth

floating pearls pierce
my window screen

I see myself reflected
in globe of the world

I
  am
       naked
       truth.

CRYING OUT!

our CHILD is with ME

SINKing in my GUT

he is words and phrases

IDEAs personified

a last HOPE for manKIND

I can carry him
into the future

wretch and bleed

SPIT HIM OUT

he will crawl on
concrete islands
listen to ivory bones

I can learn without HIM

I am a shuttle
carrying light
to its destination

BLEAR-ing out
unspoken stars

what will it look like
on the HORIZON?

my death--

what will be seen
and unseen--

tell me,

I am choking

tears seek floor
from tired eyes

I have walked too FAR

there is me
with nothing left
ahead,

I watch ALL THIS
EXISTENCE
and
CRY out!

it is morning
only morning
blue sky BLUE SKY

a child GROWing
ALONE

GRAY eyes
vibrating VISIONS

we are thoughts
thrown before us
stretching deep into the
past

DO YOU
REMEMBER
MILKY WAY?

how we got here?

my stomach erupts
puss piss blood guts goo

crawl from me!

take that STEP

be BORN

screaming into GREAT ABYSS

it is LIFE! KNOW!

IT
IS
LIFE!

But I can't

soon there'll be
morning light,

I listen to
trailers in the distance
ground highway pavement
to dust,

my hands slowed
and cold I type by
open window
violet sky,

flickering light
of desk lamp bleeds
into space and dies
out,

window creaks,
chains clamp,
engines drone,

I turn my sight
toward the bed,

my unrolled sleeping bag is
draped over mattress top,

I should be thinking
of sleep.

Star Guide

black marble galaxies,
swirling opal beams
of light, drop like
eggs onto my eyes,

I am a bleeding star

there is oneness with
the universe out there,

what if the dates and numbers
repeating throughout my life
were a premonition, were a ticking
clock predicting the moment of my
death,

what if I am God and I'm all alone?

the numbers in my head are
simple math, a writing on the wall
I left for myself a warning at end of time,
universal death,

I've all but forgotten
my omnipotence...

my fingers are gone,
just darkness now and staring into nothing

a dream

a dream

from which I'll never wake--

I guess there was no camera on that street light

No mail will come today.

                                   Wind rustles the trees

blows through leaning sunflowers.

                                   A mourning dove coos.

Sun rises only to be obscured by clouds.

                                   Air tastes like fallen leaves

and last nights showers.

Someone stole my banana

Things vanish from
lacquered desks
in fluorescent lit offices
hanging above street
corners all coated
in innocuous cement
secretly radiating cancerous
green cells radiation
poisoning us slowly
awkwardly un-noticeably
taking us closer to our
own unassailable demise.

Players

and there you are

under street lights,
roving lights,

helicopter blades
of chiaroscuro
whip by windowpanes,

gaps growing larger

reach an apex,
pass by face and
shrinking

only to grow again,

your face obscured
in shadows
and golden rays

there's the beginning of
sweat on my brow
building on my glasses
frame,

I've been too alive
for too long,

but, there are things coming to,
get us only you can see,

I search for you hand
far away, far far, far away,
knowing I'll never catch it,

street light strains
under imperceptible
screams shakes and shatters
throwing sparks that cough about
our haloed heads,

then the scene goes blank
soon the audience will cheer,

you say I can stop holding
my breath.

I find that hard to believe.

Dream Agent

Your house was
made of legos
purple, white,
pink and yellow,
alternating colors
white facade, spotted
with pink, yellow,
purple drapes and roof,

Now I'm on the Hudson
talking to the man you
warned me about,
but I'm not me, see? I'm
someone else, a hired gun,
my target is unknown.

I am deep undercover.

We are talking and both
light cigarettes, the air is
cool and moist with rain,

we shake hands, and
I tell him, "I'm not
who you think I am..."

the door opens and I
ease my way in silently,
cats sleep in all corners
there seems to be a man
on the couch under them,
I know him somehow, but
focus on the cats,
I must not wake them,
If I do I'll never
find the target.

we are in a bar now,
sitting face to face
mid conversation,

I know I don't look how
I'm supposed to, I can see
myself from the outside in
and I've done terrible things.

"It's all over now," I say, "it's
time to retire."

As we stand, your eyes searching
both sets of mine, I feel a strange
weightlessness and reach behind
my overcoat,

blood, blood, without pain
it is flowing and I fall
coming to a rest on the hardwood
floor, I watch the thick redness
of the floor thinking,

"yes, yes, I'd like to retire here..."