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UNDERGROUND VOICES: 2013 PRINT ANTHOLOGY
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MARC PIETRZYKOWSKI And I Am Not Afraid…. 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 mind’s right as rain, Pancho, it’s this world, this mad, bad, stupid world that turns my very love for it to maggotry. Mobius 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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