I’ll waste my second chances
Before this tide can pass
Wading in deepest waters
Above what fear may drown

As truth in never guessing
How fate just won’t relinquish
All these spoils left with shipwrecks
Stowing treasures lost and found

Like riches seized from age
And forevers raised by dreaming
When our oceans house no pleasure
But that answer swallowed whole

Into brines of murky depths
Or thick swells with muddled reasons
Turning God into that vessel
Now consumed by growing seas

Hiding meaning within sand
Losing hope through every relic
Sorting gold from drifting ruins
Proving life is sinking fast

If tomorrow begs our wave
For some peace or certain knowing
That such faith can conquer surges
Hiding secrets dense as foam

During nights the surf is thickest
Where each shore erodes from waiting
Under moons of missing pieces
Scattered far across this beach

Near old glass that broke apart
Beneath stars of fallen heavens
Resting somewhere underwater
Like these risks I wouldn’t take.

– J. Pigno

What hurt it is
To sleep
When fear
Is the dream which lasts
And continues well
Into daylight
Chasing each dawn
I’ve sought

As these headaches
Stunt my words
Through this night
Of throbbing penance
While my memory
Often fails me
In the sense
No morning comes

But continues
Waking death
For all pain
Remains unconscious
At that core
Of resting demons
Between bedsheets
Housing grief

Missing voice
But nothing more
Finding silence
Has its reasons
If our souls
Remaining quiet
Learn their place
Beneath that weight

Telling truths
No man admits
Till they break
With stuttered speeches
Tearing stars
Right out of orbit
Pulling moons
Into our midst

From those comets
Raining down
Speaking gifts
Of scattered heavens
Fallen skies
And distant planets
Proving fate
Is in their heads

Deep within
Each sullied mind
Begging dusk
Reveal some secrets
Though they turn
And shudder weakly
Just as darkness
Steals their breath

Like I’ve sworn
To always seize
If my phrase
Should surely linger
Beyond shadows
On these ceilings
Where this evening
Never ends.

– J. Pigno

Our mind
Is the terminal illness
In a system
Which wants us
Dead

Believing aches
Are an answer
To explain
Such bleeding’s
Cause

With guilt
That drives us mad
And its need
For empty
Spaces

Leaving holes
Which beg fulfillment
At the cost
Of absent
Faith

Like wounds
From lack of dreams
Or a time
When hope
Had reason

For excusing
Veins left open
Whose tears
Would close
With age

And begin
Their healing late
Before God
Himself
Could notice

And muster
Courage willing
To redeem
His children’s
Chance

Exploiting
Chosen grace
As the leverage
Once deemed
Human

Now destined
For long penance
At the hands
Of meaning
Lost

Where blood
Is running tabs
On the debts
Of weak
Genetics

Taking gambles
With our faces
Every instance
Love
Is made

Within bedrooms
Guarding threats
Telling tales
Through sex
Indignant

Turning lies
Like spinning spiders
Caught in webs
No heart
Escapes

Among dangers
Woven thick
Threading knots
Which capture
Secrets

Hanging gossip
Beneath ledges
Dangling names
Whose sin
Is known

As we all
Reveal our end
By the silk
Of mortal
Needles

Gauging egos
As our compass
For the fact
There is
No cloth

Though these bodies
Fade so slow
And decay
Without much
Effort

While we choose
To cut our fabric
From the cure
Which rips
Too fast

Praying hate
And money spent
Tighten seams
Of seeping
Crimson

Pouring scarlet
From their stitches
Proving life
Is damaged
Goods

Stacking crates
Of ugly souls
Mangled flesh
And missing
Purpose

Yielding truth
To filthy numbers
From a math
Less cruel
Than fate.

– J. Pigno

What’s
The right word
I’m looking for?

Oh yes
I think that’s
Artist.

Not a lawyer
Cop
Or doctor.

A teacher
Priest
Or fool.

See those people
Thrive
On neediness

In the sense
Their jobs
Are casted

For societies
Built
To linger

At these hands
Of lies
In charge.

But artists
They just
Last

And pitch
Their darkest
Shadows

With questions
Some
Can answer

Finding truth
Where none
Exists –

Exploring
Faith as
Doubt,

Holding dear
What pain
Expresses,

Agreeing
Life bears
Meaning

If the reason
Means
To live.

To love
And lose
Intensely,

To conquer
Fate
By dreaming

And attain
That near
Forever

When its far
For those
Who choose

Their role
Which follows
Suit

Every breath
That’s passed
Before them

From the lips
Of lives
Examined

Only for
What cash
They claim

Is safety
Built
To last

As it fades
Without
Their measure

Of smiles
Held
By children

But the cost
Of bills
They paid.

No narrative
Left
To ponder

Or mystery
Bound
To savor,

Just lines
In local
Papers

Telling goals
They couldn’t
Reach

As death
Assumes
That chance

From the time
Our heart
Is beating

And evil
Speaks of
Pleasure

Which requires
Work
As God.

So seize
This fleeting
Chance

And let artists
Just be
Artists.

Or become one
If you
Aren’t.

Otherwise
I say
Boo hoo.

– J. Pigno

Each day
I wake to suffer
With a fear
Which drives me
Mad

As some new
And changing
Symptom
Of this sickness
Undefined

Like these weak
And trembling lips
Turning blue
From shallow
Breathing

When my heart
Which races quickly
Seeks to gain
Its second
Chance

Crushed beneath
That empty weight
Of a chest
Still beating
Heavy

Finding death
Is something easy
For this young
Yet tired
Life

Hardly sold
On futures past
By his fate
Now fast
Approaching

At the hands
Of dangerous feelings
Held within
One certain
Place

Deep inside
His swollen eyes
Closing soon
Despite
Their glimmer

Where redemption
Means believing
Passing time
Is pain
Deserved

Waiting long
For true relief
Only God
Can barely
Muster

While the hours
Take my spirit
And pretend
These minutes
Fade

Into hopes
As tiny grains
Blending flesh
With prayers
Expired

Out of torture
Called existence
Like this glass
Of falling
Sand.

– J. Pigno

Don’t judge me
By old stains
Left streaked
Across these tiles
When exposed
To daily footprints
Where thick dirt
Which tramples faith
Drags its filth
Beneath these lights
Under halos
Cold and focused
Like bright angels
Casting shadows
In exam rooms
Chasing scars

Making space
For sudden death
While fluorescents
Mock this prison
Showing tarnish
Through their beacons
Of attentions
Meant to maim
As I suffer
Bitter ends
At these hands
No victim warrants
Proving doctors
Claim their talents
By exerting
Biased grace

And technique
So fucking harsh
That each forcep
Squeezes tightly
Like gray ice
Upon my body
Freezing quickly
What they touch
With their shine
So oddly blinding
Only God
Would be as subtle
As He worked
Without intention
Of protecting
Life as weak

Smelling bleach
Within those halls
Just outside
My gleaming dungeon
Begging white
Much like this flooring
Which reflects
A soiled dream
That I waste
From getting sick
Tracing grief
Around each corner
Finding hurt
Instead of answers
Seeking cures
Their science fakes.

– J. Pigno

This rain
Comes down in waves
Proving
We’re all just shadows
Of a heaven
Blocked
From exposure
To its people
Threatened
By clouds

Believing
Gray makes sense
For the time
Our blue
Stays hidden
Beneath what dream
Is daylight
Like truth
Behind
Each storm

Agreeing
Faith may change
How dark
Itself
Bears witness
To God beneath
Grown silent
Where creation
Begs
His sun

Prepared
Though storms may rage
Even when
Our life
Is wasted
On avoiding stress
So easy
That this weather
Shows us
How –

Finding hope
Through pain
While accepting
Peace
Is feeling
That our wait
For better climates
Is the only
Fate
We choose.

– J. Pigno