UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
ANTHONY LICCIONE

One

They wrapped the man
under a crew of hastening
spotlights, cameras and blankets,
the blizzard of white snow blinding
the lens with fog and frost-
as newscasters were eager
to ask questions,
of what was it like...
or is your son still alive...
the man, yet frozen from shock
and severe hypothermia,
body clothes of his
sonís shirt shroud around
his head as a hat
and pieces of airplane metal
to stable his broken leg
and collapsed lung.

He was presumed the only
survivor of the small twin-
engine plane that crashed off
into the side of a mountain
southwest of Massachusetts.
Behind breaking news of the
father and son who went missing
for sixty-three days,
a charcoal plane in the background
split in two, now cooled off
with blackened ice after an
explosive fire on impact.
As EMTís and rescue workers
rushed with heat packs and
flashlights.

In a remote hole under the plane
they found his son
as cool storage tucked away,
parts of his body detached-
his fingers and organs
clasped in the corner cabin
next to made-cups of melted
snow, urine and blood.
Where a Cross was half
frostbitten on the wall.

Some thought him a monster,
how could he have done
the mortal, in eating his son,
while others say they would
have done the same
given the circumstance,
in that his son saved his life.

At the investigation
he testified that his son told him
it was ok should he not make it
through and his father hungered.
When his son didnít make it
that week, he did
just as they had planned.
But outside people banned
the idea,
labeling him a cannibal,
a killer, and cruel crime.

Inside he could see his son
smiling,
photos of childhood years-
dinnertime in his highchair
when he brought a spoonful
of food as an airplane to his mouth,
propellers being generated by lips.

The court sentenced him
to serve a life for cannibalism,
soon after his health returns-
and when asked what would
he like at the hospital to eat,
he said a steak, a juicy medium-
rare sirloin steak with mashed
potatoes with some of that fancy
A-1 sauce.


No Time, for Time

The clock is simply
a matter of time,
and this drink seems
to go down comfortably
each time we meet.
Sometimes I wish
love could be swallowed
just as easily,
and the feeling attached
be just as numb and real-
but the ice cubes afloat
like a boat with holes
in the hullĖ
become a reality,
and evaporate,
causing a good drink
go bad.

Iíve learned itís the mixing
that does most damage,
lust and need, truth
and dare,
liquor and beer
suicide and reality; George
Bush, Dick Cheney
vagrant pussies and
arrogant dicks.

But I let her go,
and thatís the reality
of the truth,
life goes on
ticking without reason
in the future,
the ghost of her
stuck in my past.


Anthony Liccione has been writing poetry
for 14 years... sleeping less and eating
more. His book Please Pass Me, the
Blood & Butter is scheduled to be
released late 2006.






© 2006 Underground Voices