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UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
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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 son’s 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 EMT’s 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 didn’t 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 hull– become a reality, and evaporate, causing a good drink go bad. I’ve learned it’s 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 that’s 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. |
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© 2006 Underground Voices |
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