And I Am Not AfraidÖ.

I have tasted the flesh of the zombies who live
              behind the gates of work/play communities,
tried to understand them virally, on the scale
              of the scourge. I have supped
with vampire monkeys on rooftop gardens, watching
              helicopters plummet in the sunset like cherry blossoms.
I have raised my tiny fists in triumph with the over-diagnosed,
              the over-determined half-time celebrants, all
to no avail: my mindís right as rain, Pancho, itís this world,
              this mad, bad, stupid world
that turns my very love for it to maggotry.


The mountain in the rear view mirror
purses its lips and throws me a kiss
and all the cars behind me shimmer
like a breeze-blown curtain
on a late Saturday afternoon, sunlight
stretching its paws up the wallpaper.

And on the mountain, a door, bright red
and brass handled, and behind the door
her skinny toes curling crooked
over the couch arm, a chipped
and dormant teapot, a dusty mirror
reflecting a dirt road that leads away,
a rattling sedan crawling it like a roach.

The face around her mouth (an O
like an eclipse, like a moray's discreet
door, a mineshaft on an asteroid)
is settled as a cairn, and points the way
home. Home was fingertips reading
the story of a spine, and now?
A cardboard motel in a glass desert.

I toss cards at a hat, as I learned to do
from movies full of sharp-faced men
who wait. I toss them to make myself
believe I am waiting, and I am, for a day
unlike any other to come. A day like the one
before the mountain rose, before it was
a dark valley, before molten stone and scattered
bits of star finding each other in the crevices
between past and not-past. The day
it finally goes still, perfectly smooth,
all the jokes told and crevices filled in.

Marc Pietrzykowski lives and works and writes in Niagara County, NY, USA. He has published 4 books of poetry, with a fifth on the way in March 2013, and 1 novel. You can visit Marc virtually at marcpski.com.

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