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MY LIFE IN EMPTY SPACE
Everyone has it What they were was taken Or left Expelled with the trash The residual leavings of life Excreted lifeless empty I am left with the holes Of memory through the laughing smiles The touch of a small hand The eyes turned upward Loving the birds Especially the red ones You remember those days of dressing up She hated the attention of her favorite color And was patient in the museums Odd for a child her age You wondered at the joy she commanded Where would it take her? You dreamt for her Her choices viewed from immature bows and taffeta Your charge to plan and dream for her Until her design finalized by her seasoned choices That season never came And it was never planned for Because there was no plan And there was no life That made an allowance For unbearable terrible eventualities Possibilities that are unthought Through the moments and breaths Of a child’s happy gasps Of one more time Momma One more time What can we do with these empty spaces? They will never be her And what have I become living as a minus From the memories of her in my heart There is no reckoning of us left or of me There is no me without us And that is my life in empty space HER DELIGHTFUL SMILE Axiom: Beaming deception is shrouded by constant smiles Janet smiled to excess Happiness exists in flashes Not in perpetuity A bewildering obscurity Glistening behind conspiracies This is the one with the cackling sister Behind the curtain Plotting against the naïve brother This was the main feature Unveiling the cartoons of my life I have seen this one Janet the flying monkey Grinning madly in the air There was no awakening From the nightmare of Janet Hallucinations night after night Calling for my little sister We spoke for years and years In the terrible daylight Her incessant smiling Continuing and chronic Truth was a stranger When I shared my pain She replied with a smile I grasped for her but found smiling desolation She is gone but her smile remains in memory And now I rely on the remembrance Of her smiling face And the nothing it gave me THE HORTICULTURIST Barbara embraces the flower She cannot resist First the stems slightly Then the delicate blooms What does she see that I do not? And then she caresses me TO MY FAVORITE EMOTIONAL CRIPPLE Underneath the perpetual Halloween masks Of fashion art and correct moral despair She deposits her opinions Like fecal disease disguised as au courant sophistication Eventually distinguishing herself As graceful stale fish emanating from the art gallery Her craven cowardice hides Behind whatever it is she is selling It cannot be her Because there is no there There She talks to mirrors Or others that speak in her preferred Mirror language of rot Providing an environment to make her comfortable She is an interesting disgrace And dances well for a handicapped person Until it becomes time for loyalty And she retreats into the cell of ruin That she has become Let us celebrate the embrace of her demise It is after all an example of her free spirit WHEN THE GOING TO DIE BLUES TRANSITIONS TO THE GOING TO DIE ANYWAY RAG They told you That you reached a certain age Knowing better A wizened nod To the assembled onlookers Growing from the stumps On the streetcorners Their glared and cornered peripherals Noses pointed to the margins Tracking your regressions As you falter predictably An exemplar to the dynamic Of your devolution Going through the motions Biding your time Until the next big thing But there is nothing on the horizon No invitations were sent No meetings are scheduled And everything that must be done Has been done or neglected The question lingers in the air What is the point and the purpose of you? You see shadows and silhouettes Apparitions of moist tight skin You assailed the unforgiving storms Not giving a damn with her Grinning at terrors They were trivialities to your conceit Vulnerability is your embraced ally Smoke stifles your flagging memory Where the air no longer breezes The memories pile up unmercifully Too much to keep orderly And the chaos and confusion festers And breeds well in an environment Of cerebral clutter and noise Clanging and banging thoughtlessly Inside your head The queues are fowled and the memories Demolished and cracked The reality of the last beat Of the measure of your life has begun We begin our final tune for the evening The Going to Die Anyway Rag A request by Giulio Magrini BIO: Giulio Magrini started writing poetry in the early 1970’s, and takes most of his inspiration from the darker sides of human nature. He has performed at the Three Rivers Arts Festival, and many other former venues in Pittsburgh. Giulio has conducted poetry workshops in alternative high schools, prisons, drug and alcohol rehabilitation centers, and hosted a radio show for local poets. His book The Color of Dirt will be published sometime this Summer by Word Association Press. Magrini has always preferred the performance of his work over publishing, until now.
Fevers of the Mind 