tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53166119800449846852024-03-12T21:32:27.094-04:00A Magical MistakeI guess you could say ink and paper make the writer, and I guess that's why I choose not to use them.Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.comBlogger1606125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-28114836560607533632023-11-01T11:47:00.001-04:002023-11-01T11:47:44.920-04:005 yearsRemember as the sun set on James island<div> Barely there beach and we sat there</div><div><br></div><div>Tired</div><div><br></div><div>Together</div><div> in a blaze of red</div><div><br></div><div>Fading into the coming night</div><div><br></div><div>And how after heading back to our camp</div><div>An old man</div><div> stopping us</div><div>to show the pictures he had taken of </div><div>Our silhouettes together encircled by </div><div>Fiery dusk</div><div><br></div><div>How he asked for our emails </div><div>In effort to send the photos to us and </div><div>How we wrote them down</div><div> on</div><div>a piece of barely damp notebook paper</div><div>And how walking away you said</div><div><br></div><div>He's never going to send them</div><div>Because he was going to jerk off to them</div><div><br></div><div>And recall how I'm sitting here tonight</div><div>Still waiting for those photos even though</div><div>It's been what, five years?</div>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-36957129349355313102023-06-28T14:20:00.004-04:002023-08-24T22:13:32.311-04:00Dreams this morning<div style="text-align: left;"> Vague </div><div style="text-align: left;">I couldn't know</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">where you were taking me;</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">fleeting memories;<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">my eyes watching your fingers</div><div style="text-align: left;">curl</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">to last mists of the morning;</div><div style="text-align: left;">a yellow sky</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">a life I had left;</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">losing the last threads of</div><div style="text-align: left;">remembering;</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">how did I come to remain here</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">watching you open your eyes? <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> <br /></div>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-87710540841243705692022-02-15T23:43:00.001-05:002022-02-15T23:43:07.627-05:00my mother was a sunshine of memory<div style="text-align: left;">I <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">there was a short walkway to the duplex </div><div style="text-align: left;">around which japanese beetles swarmed</div><div style="text-align: left;">my mother was a sunshine of memory yellow at </div><div style="text-align: left;">the back of my neck</div><div style="text-align: left;">she illuminated the pavement that soon</div><div style="text-align: left;">would cease to be my world <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">II <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">on Belmont ave alone with a baseball bat</div><div style="text-align: left;">I swung and took the life of a swarm of firefly </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I have long ago forgotten their names</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I have since lived in regret and supplication</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">their death lights remind me of the faces of dead cats </div><div style="text-align: left;">our neighbors killed. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">III</div><div style="text-align: left;">In my dreams I am tormented by two places</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">a small infinitely growing patch of grass at </div><div style="text-align: left;">the end of a long suburban street</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">a gray hulking jug shaped water tower</div><div style="text-align: left;">watching from a distance.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">IV</div><div style="text-align: left;">30 years ago I leapt from the top of the</div><div style="text-align: left;">tallest slide in the world</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">in my memory they have left it standing</div><div style="text-align: left;">after all these years.<br /></div>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-32843623775914092882022-01-28T13:40:00.004-05:002022-01-28T15:51:56.397-05:00Parallel Dystopia<div style="text-align: left;"> forward to come to the </div><div style="text-align: left;">place of hanging wire</div><div style="text-align: left;">the autumn of electric civilization</div><div style="text-align: left;">moss growth on the canopy towers</div><div style="text-align: left;">walking alone</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> the cables droop like my steps</div><div style="text-align: left;">as sinking into pot holes I watch</div><div style="text-align: left;">into the long lonely paved distance <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">there is no ride coming to tell of the here now</div><div style="text-align: left;">end of time</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> I am in possession</div><div style="text-align: left;">of the last threadbare pair </div><div style="text-align: left;">of mournful jeans</div><div style="text-align: left;">the last immutable skeletal remains</div><div style="text-align: left;">a faint clicking of branches </div><div style="text-align: left;">brings the final static fall</div><div style="text-align: left;">of the human forest</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> blinding smoke whiter than ancient</div><div style="text-align: left;">cloud bodies drift over the corpse of </div><div style="text-align: left;">the summer afternoon</div><div style="text-align: left;">there is no temperature left</div><div style="text-align: left;">all the mercury having sunk </div><div style="text-align: left;">into my skin</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I can no longer find pockets</div><div style="text-align: left;">for my bloodied hands</div><div style="text-align: left;">I can no longer find skin</div><div style="text-align: left;">to cover their naked flesh</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> the distant shriek of amnesiac</div><div style="text-align: left;">cell phones have replaced even </div><div style="text-align: left;">the oldest bird song </div><div style="text-align: left;">the last human voice lost to antiquity</div><div style="text-align: left;">leaving a message I am not</div><div style="text-align: left;">sure I understand</div>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-44458754624319813032022-01-22T00:42:00.003-05:002022-01-22T00:42:32.097-05:00Darkness<div style="text-align: left;"> I keep the door closed</div><div style="text-align: left;">my hands crack against the fault line</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">it breaks like the spine of a book</div><div style="text-align: left;">folding back spilling letters out</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">the pages rain slowly slipping</div><div style="text-align: left;">under the rug</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">I wonder if the door could open</div><div style="text-align: left;">without me were I to wait</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">there isn't anything left inside</div><div style="text-align: left;">the sound of breath that are not mine</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">the growing distance between myself and the cold</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">a window pane peering behind its own eyes<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">sees nothing but the light <br /></div>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-59934815533006826992022-01-20T21:23:00.002-05:002022-01-21T10:35:33.896-05:00partyStanding in that kitchen<div>The cold tile glowing radiantly under the dying oven light</div><div>Late into the morning late into the evening<br /></div><div>Leaning against the loose knobs of the cold stove top</div><div>Coming down from mushroom acid drunk trip holding a can of beer in my hand</div><div>feeling the open flesh under finger nails <br /></div><div>Listening to you laugh and the sounds of your voices </div><div>echoing into the darkened walls of the old house I was waiting for the universe </div><div>To halt itself in momentary standstill to split into a billion known possibilities </div><div>to reach the end of its endless trek into the ever sharpening void</div><div>Standing in that kitchen wanting to hold each of you forever screaming </div><div>into the abyss of timeless nothing-ness and shadow<br /></div><div>Sitting here tonight alone under the foggy light of a winter moon </div><div>wishing it all had come true</div>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-85567299343020493432021-12-09T12:13:00.004-05:002022-01-28T13:56:53.141-05:00rambling buttons<div style="text-align: left;"> the button has evolved into </div><div style="text-align: left;">a noiseless vacuum for sound </div><div style="text-align: left;">spilling out unconscionable </div><div style="text-align: left;">silent lies twisted in fabricated knots</div><div style="text-align: left;"> clinging to the pasts of the</div><div style="text-align: left;"> world they are in nameless</div><div style="text-align: left;"> ways a detailed map</div><div style="text-align: left;">of the future rot of post-</div><div style="text-align: left;">cyber-space frontiers</div><div style="text-align: left;">the plastic encased forests of the afterlife</div><div style="text-align: left;"> conceptual landscape </div><div style="text-align: left;"> forbidden in un-digitized </div><div style="text-align: left;"> scripts </div><div style="text-align: left;"> the button has been transformed</div><div style="text-align: left;">by formidable lies arranged by</div><div style="text-align: left;">present visions of mankind</div><div style="text-align: left;">wrapped in napkins and placed</div><div style="text-align: left;">rather lovingly in the trashcans</div><div style="text-align: left;">of the once bountiful regions</div><div style="text-align: left;">formerly known as the silicon </div><div style="text-align: left;">west.</div>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-20031803553375047022021-12-08T14:22:00.010-05:002021-12-08T14:25:33.988-05:00Heavy<p> the last episode of a particular chapter </p><p> translated</p><div style="text-align: left;">I buried it</div><div style="text-align: left;">in the remains of the backyard</div><div style="text-align: left;">under the violet sky</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">as the moon looked down</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">disparagingly </div><div style="text-align: left;"> I tried not to picture its eyes</div><div style="text-align: left;">glowing against my back</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I tore my hands at the digging</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I cut the ground with my tears</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I placed a stone upon its head</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">as the moon fell behind the collapsed roof</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">as the rising clouds peered up</div><div style="text-align: left;">I took out my hands</div><div style="text-align: left;">I drew a corpse </div><div style="text-align: left;">into their rusted breath </div>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-1578574950807013562021-12-08T14:19:00.001-05:002021-12-08T14:19:00.875-05:00uncertainly<div style="text-align: left;"> I wonder when times moves across the trees</div><div style="text-align: left;">dragging the clouds I wonder what will become </div><div style="text-align: left;">of the hours it takes to erase the grass I wonder</div><div style="text-align: left;">what will be built upon those memories we have</div><div style="text-align: left;">almost forgotten I wonder how the glass will break</div><div style="text-align: left;">down and becoming sand I wonder what will the plants</div><div style="text-align: left;">be like that take my place <br /></div>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-84239646808023849282021-12-06T14:49:00.003-05:002021-12-06T14:49:45.815-05:00time to write a poem about covid and false memories of the past<div style="text-align: left;"> you could swim at the far end of the tent. at 4am the temperature was steadily</div><div style="text-align: left;">falling toward the floor. it would be hours until the sun rose about the spires </div><div style="text-align: left;">that stood in for the trees of our past. there were no sounds that could be made</div><div style="text-align: left;">into car engines. you said it yourself we are truly alone.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> there was nothing beyond the lake but the wreck of the next several years.</div><div style="text-align: left;">they reminded me of the isolation I had grown to know in the past. where we</div><div style="text-align: left;">were going would we would need to swim. downriver. we only had left one </div><div style="text-align: left;">change of clothes.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">the seasons worked in reverse until they were children again. when the world </div><div style="text-align: left;">would be faded at the edges with the liminal fragrances of the cathode tubes.</div><div style="text-align: left;">something haunting and safe. to scare their shadows into abeyance again.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> to find what was lost they plunged their faces in. they bit and tore at the veins</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">we drank until there was nothing </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">you wept for any thing else left. <br /></div>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-79339015503080338102021-12-06T14:33:00.002-05:002021-12-06T14:36:40.630-05:00on purpose<div style="text-align: left;">I am upstairs</div><div style="text-align: left;">looking like the leaves</div><div style="text-align: left;">falling from those trees</div><div style="text-align: left;">I can see outside the window</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">the motion of branches </div>blowing in the wind<br /><div style="text-align: left;">draws my attention</div><div style="text-align: left;">to puddles of red and yellow</div><div style="text-align: left;">in the street</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">a ups driver navigates </div><div style="text-align: left;">a gray circle of concrete</div><div style="text-align: left;">the dead end turn<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">the bleak future straight ahead</div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">he doesn't touch a single leaf <br /></div>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-29016830238380910662021-09-17T22:06:00.001-04:002021-09-17T22:06:27.169-04:00everywhereHidden away in the bathroom<div>the tiles are left wordless</div><div>Cold and lifeless too</div><div>Evey poem is a failed self-portrait</div><div>I am here too</div><div>making it up as I go along</div><div>Kept from the stars by windowpane</div><div>Kept from reality by the door</div>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-45401615670727100302021-09-05T20:59:00.001-04:002021-09-05T20:59:14.746-04:00mimeIt is in france<div>the mimes have all gone post modern</div><div>You pass them on street corners </div><div>defaced by alleyways</div><div>unable to grasp their age</div><div>without makeup the face has melted off </div><div>they stand there without lifting their cane</div><div>they don't give a shit about your change</div>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-3953953430614890092021-04-27T16:11:00.010-04:002021-12-09T12:02:48.033-05:00House<p> the shadow that the floorboard casts</p><p>across my feet.</p><p><br /></p><p>yesterday's coffee stirs</p><p>in the breeze sneaking under</p><p>cracks in window</p><p>leave broken faces staring into the sun</p><p><br /></p><p>cold</p><p><br /></p><p>my hands have no age</p><p>i dont recognize them</p><p><br /></p><p>no wrinkle forms a memory</p><p>no scars are a thought</p><p><br /></p><p>my dreams have transpired</p><p>they have become more reality than not</p><p><br /></p><p>a neighbors lawnmower purrs</p><p><br /></p><p>the grass is already asleep.</p>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-38772110614342919172021-04-09T11:47:00.002-04:002021-04-09T11:47:13.258-04:00A Collection of Dream V<p> blocking the exits</p><p>a man dismantles a typewriter door frame</p><p>I walked down using the back</p><p>of chairs</p><p> it was to escape an theatre with </p><p><br /></p><p>no screen I should have asked him to move</p><p>but I didn't want to bother ruin his</p><p>concentration</p><p><br /></p><p>my hat is on my hip when I mean to make</p><p>sure I didn't leave it in my seat</p><p><br /></p><p>the film flips at its end black white then black and white</p><p>two huge metal doors creak and</p><p>the theatre exits and an escalator like metro</p><p>removes takes me outside into a city </p><p>unlike but it feels like generally</p><p>DC</p>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-46215881116483901702021-04-06T14:38:00.002-04:002021-04-06T14:38:40.907-04:00A Collection of Dream IV<p> leaving. i'm here for some reason </p><p>stopped being a student</p><p>but i'm in hs again. in the building.</p><p><br /></p><p>someone i know is hanging by the visitors entrance</p><p>the other side of the ropes</p><p>i lie and tell them my wife is working late</p><p>but that's a lie. i don't have a clue where they are.</p><p><br /></p><p>around the corner. i am entering my old neighborhood</p><p>childhood. in a field there's a holed out barn burnt up</p><p><br /></p><p>the building held some importance long ago</p><p><br /></p><p>to memory or youth possibly. i cannot hold back.</p><p><br /></p><p>crying. </p><p><br /></p><p>beyond the barn the structure shifting to this kind</p><p>of soft smooth neoclassical structure a kind of </p><p>bottle behind it rising above the sky </p><p>there's a larger horrible copy </p><p>engulfing the earth my eyes my mind</p>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-8875082246375643222021-04-02T15:07:00.006-04:002021-04-02T15:07:46.413-04:00A Collection of Dream III<p style="text-align: left;">I am at a thrift store. My brother slipping </p><p style="text-align: left;">something in pocket.</p><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p>we're outside looking in cars. I am not aware.</p><p>We may have been seen.</p><p><br /></p><p>Inside the car my father looks out. His eyes are bulgy under lids. they are gone.</p><p>He says they are getting better. better.</p><p><br /></p><p>but his eye lids are stuck together. He forces them open as proof.</p><p><br /></p><p>the thin skin tearing at his lashes.</p>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-12254066791922776292021-04-02T15:02:00.002-04:002021-04-02T15:02:19.377-04:00A Collection of Dream II<p> I thought I was </p><p> trapped in a dollhouse</p><p><br /></p><p>but the trees</p><p>they recognized me</p>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-14059920909386238132021-04-02T15:01:00.005-04:002021-04-02T15:01:19.360-04:00A Collection of Dream I<p>There's a blind cat with a clown mask walking on hind legs</p><p>a dog attacked on thanksgiving leaving diarrhea in it's wake</p><p>the movie on tv is a romcom but like super heroes married gore</p><p>the main character like a boy but after every world altering event</p><p>he likes another boy more</p>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-61713175199914344222020-12-22T16:03:00.001-05:002020-12-22T16:03:19.762-05:00winter <div style="text-align: left;"> i take the shrinking hours</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">i watch them drop below</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">the horizon</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> that is really just a wooden fence</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">i forget where they have been</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">promising the lie that ill remember them</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">always</div>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-46849596467436970372020-12-21T08:55:00.004-05:002020-12-23T15:59:31.845-05:00a return to unease<div style="text-align: left;">the last time</div><div style="text-align: left;">backlight red</div><div style="text-align: left;">drifting into blue</div><div style="text-align: left;">through the window</div><div style="text-align: left;">watching eyes go blank</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">become reflections in the snow</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">night like before</div><div style="text-align: left;">seems to shiver like </div><div style="text-align: left;">midnight</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">the sun barely down</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">there's no switch to</div><div style="text-align: left;">release </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">the last time</div><div style="text-align: left;">to make sense of </div><div style="text-align: left;">where the cloud goes</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">when it's gone</div>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-81097175571331328342020-08-03T07:28:00.005-04:002020-08-03T07:31:02.774-04:00Predictionmarked automatically;<div><br /></div><div> life passing within four walls</div><div>a leaky faucet of time</div><div><br /></div><div>the overgrowth of yard</div><div>before the window</div><div><br /></div><div>effortless and green</div><div><br /></div><div>a million sown fields of pokeweed</div><div>glowing pink for a moment</div><div>in the stillborn sunrise</div><div><br /></div><div>it's partly cloudy today</div><div>I am superimposed over this reality</div><div><br /></div><div>there is rain in every imaginary forecast</div><div><br /></div><div>time is a summer storm</div><div>before the window pane</div><div><br /></div><div>the blackberries of july will become the winter's snow </div><div>before I am gone</div><div><br /></div>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-74248198065688519112020-06-06T01:05:00.001-04:002020-06-08T22:46:04.019-04:00never futureIt was rather raw.<div> the bloody spot. leaking valves.</div><div>Rubber not conducive to cleaning up the spill</div><div>only tongues of the willing will suffice.</div><div>Whether they be brought to heel or made to grovel</div><div>armor can only weigh down so much.</div><div> luckily with no conscience to break.</div><div>only meat. Cold deathless meat. raw meat</div><div>fit snuggly into containment units</div><div>set with bullets for mortar. burned out sockets. salted and cured of sentimental value. without eyes to see inward</div><div>the deathlike void reaches out</div><div>pulling itself inside. </div><div>marked with no decision. Taking every reward. </div><div>Made of nothing concrete. </div><div>Only violent. Only violence. Only now and then.</div>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-11072104005269830572020-06-05T17:06:00.000-04:002020-06-05T17:06:36.875-04:00No new hires<div>drawing a crooked line to</div><div><br /></div><div> this current dream</div><div><br /></div><div>the face of nondescript mall</div><div>escalator to rolls</div><div><br /></div><div> the floor i meet is not</div><div>the one</div><div> recalled</div><div><br /></div><div>i haven't been making the walls</div><div>of the memory</div><div><br /></div><div>the vision is not waiting here for my return</div><div><br /></div><div>only confusion of time</div><div><br /></div><div>a lost place a wretched belief</div><div><br /></div>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5316611980044984685.post-69554826234711731802020-06-05T17:05:00.000-04:002020-06-05T17:05:00.988-04:00Peanutsmusic played like end credits<div> eight years </div><div><br /></div><div>ago reminded of cracked pavement</div><div>broad street</div><div><br /></div><div>Newark caramelized peanuts</div><div><br /></div><div> searching for 50c </div><div><br /></div><div>to make the down</div><div> payment</div><div><br /></div><div>to continue to the river's edge</div><div> to soak my brain away in the stream</div>Tom Pescatorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615947120691377403noreply@blogger.com0