Each time
I force this
Shit
Is another
Day that’s
Wearing

On words
Which have
No meaning
Outside
What spark
Has passed

Until
These feelings
Rear
Such phrases
Short
And scary

Like passing
Bolts
Of thunder
Which strike
At ground
This hard

To unleash
Their spoken
Wrath
With stories
Told
From caring

Too much
As God
Would put it
For memories
Old
Yet raw

Still nagging
In this
Rain
Which pours
On open
Spaces

Where fields
Inside
My being
Are drenched
When anger
Flows

But waits
For coming
Rays
Through release
Of clouded
Tensions

Spoken
As my
Lightning
Is witnessed
Near that
Sun

Beyond
What danger
Cracks
Within dark
And scattered
Systems

Plaguing
Minds left
Empty
Across heavens
Clear
And real

Beneath chance
Or fated
Storms
So dark
I cannot
Witness

How skies
Are open
Daily
Over holes
I always
Chase

Through fog
That lingers
Low
Between cracks
That have me
Begging

Amid fears
Like distant
Doldrums
For my writing
Come
And gone.

– J. Pigno

Allow me
This day to exist
Without fear
Of death
Drawing near

For the time
Which keeps me
Certain
Our life
Is a borrowed dream

When I wake
To caress your cheeks
Between
These sheets
So tender

Imagining
Every shadow
Of that morning
Sun
Is me

Tracing
Lines which curve
Around
Your dimples
Sweated

Placing
Fingers gently
Near the mouth
You keep
At rest

To pretend
We just won’t know
That love
Is always
Reaching

From the heat
Our bodies
Mingle
Like a furnace
Burning chance

Of the thread
Which ties
Our hearts
Bonding flesh
That’s waited

Believing
Each breath sacred
As the one
Which could be
Last

While never
Knowing fate
If the feeling
Comes
Too frequent

Where nerves
And passing answers
Give us solace
Through their
Test

Grateful
We have danced
And perhaps
Have even
Said this

How words
Lose reservations
On nights
We choose
To share.

– J. Pigno

Her husband
Was the kind of man
Convinced
He had to make
Money

No matter what cost
Of spirit
For his soul
Was a lineage
Marked

As he toiled
Looking ahead
Consumed
With fleeting
Successes

Depressed
Anna was married
To him
As a bride
Impure

Through rivals
Within his trade
Both heirs
Of certain
Distinction

Filling cups
From crystal
Holding cash
Which often
Flowed

Building worlds
Uncorked
At tables
Vast
Yet many

Conquering
Parties frequent
Whenever
Those drinks
Were asked

And questions
Poured
Like fate
Where miseries
Mounted quickly

Each time
These customers
Wondered
If driving
Would be okay

While Anna
She worried sick
Hating
The fact
She’d chosen

Her spouse
So focused
And ready
To reap such seeds
Of waste

By lives
Shortened
And victim
At the hands
Of dangerous excess

Like her babies
Gone
From fretting
His need
To merely advance

Always
Demanding change
From her face
And home
They settled

An estate
Ripe with envy
For the vineyards
Bigger
Than theirs

Producing
What he claimed
Was the fount
Of purest
Wishes

Dismayed
How Anna begged him
For a bliss
Their union
Shared

Though pregnant
As she was
That night
The record
Shattered

Waking him
From sleeping
To a vinyl
Cracked
And split

As the needle
Slowly swayed
Over air
Without
Its purpose

To present
Such aging music
On the side
His wife
Preferred

Noticing
She was gone
With blood
Beyond
Their quarters

Smeared
Far down
The corridor
To their kitchen
Glowing dim

Following
Screeching sound
From a TV
Left
With static

Frightening
After midnight
As the emergency
Broadcast
Test

Blared
Among those halls
Of a mansion
Hushed
And silent

Seeking
Anna’s presence
He felt
Behind him
Weak

Like whispers
In his ear
Which spoke
Of phantoms
Witnessed

Discovering
She was dangling
Just above him
Come
New dawn.

– J. Pigno

She’d left
Her record on
Last night
When the pair
Was sleeping

Across that floor
By the fire
Where moonlight
Paled
On her face

Dim
As the glow
From her cheeks
Fading quick
As she hassled

Turning fast
Under blankets
Hot
Between flannels
And sex

Sweating thick
When she dreamed
Then waking
Soon
From a nightmare

To the whine
Of her crying baby
Like blues
Of a distant
Affair

His pitch
A piercing wail
Clean
As an instrument
Screaming

Or guitars
Eerily calling
With voices
Loud
From her past

As she laid
Achingly still
Fearing
That music
So distant

Which trailed
Haunting
But closer
Following ghosts
Into rooms

Through shadows
Banging on walls
With messages
Told
By their knocking

Speaking low
Of those devils
Who lived
Not far
From her womb

As hurt
She nurtured
Inside
Grew mad
And shockingly restless

Kicking hard
In her stomach
As she stood
Erect
With a gasp

Pursuing tunes
That she heard
Like tears
Which came
From the kitchen

And an infant
Born in her memory
Not held
Or easily
Fed

Remembering
Losses deep
Yet shallow
Enough
For a bottle

Filled
To the brim
With crimson
Like blood
Of forgotten flesh

On the wood
Which easily stained
From her legs
Spotted
And yielding

Near the fridge
So perfectly
Fallen
Drunk as death
Bid her well

Doubting
Those grapes
Were sweet
That time of year
At the mansion

Peering out
Upon vineyards
Where darkness
Hung
Over fields

Wishing
Her second chance
Wasn’t cursed
Or deemed
Such a challenge

But the sin
Of her husband’s
Obsession
Proved in fact
It just might

Be a source
For continuing rage
As the song
Did play
Until daylight

Reminding
Anna was victim
To a man
Whose legacy
Thrived.

Outside
That morning came
And with it
Work
For the season

But still
No child existed
Except
In her soul
Which had passed

As Anna
Peered
Unto Earth
Unsure if her heaven
Was waiting

Expecting God
Would console her

Instead
He had asked
For revenge.

– J. Pigno

Our heart
Demands
With blood

What oxygen
Fails
To inspire

Beyond
Such fear
That is waiting

Between
Each breath
That we take,

Through pulses
Bound
To repeat

As long
As our minds
Keep begging

For a feeling
Death
Doesn’t answer

But insists
Holds God
At its door –

As peace
Still remains
Unseen

Despite
These ends
Of our making,

Like blackness
Bold
Without reason

Among miracles
Spoiled
From cause

When truths
Persist
Or object

To the fallacy
Known
As existence

In the face
Of pain
Automatic

Where humans
Believe
They can change.

No man
Is certain
Of choice

While claiming
Fate
Has a body.

Life
Isn’t based
On happy.

If anything,
It’s born
From sad.

– J. Pigno

I used
To feel relief
At the prospect
Of expression
When unleashing
Living poisons
From a soul
With missing cause

Before
What answers came
Through shapes
Of faint obsessions
Biding hurt
In silence
At a moment
Ripe with fear

While sickness
That I’d claim
By close calls
Of my choosing
Inspired
Angry shadows
Like threats
When being chased

Running
From my dreams
Of ghosts
Whose fleeting semblance
Appeared
As waking nightmares
Within
Those anxious haunts –

These dwellings
That I’d made
And built
Like nervous chambers
Winding
Far and distant
Amid labyrinths
Held inside

So illness
Lost my heart
Not found
Among these ruins
Concealing jewels
Of envy
For a world
That mattered none

To this man
Who wasn’t dead
But thought
He might as well be
Until
Her beaming smile
Sought treasure
Near his core

Unearthing
Solid gold
From phrases
Left abandoned
Caked
With stony layers
Yet soft
As honest flesh.

Some words
Are never said
Or meant
To have been written

But these,
My only wishes,
Are the diamonds
Of your voice –

Shimmering
In my dark
As passions
Wholly priceless

With the help
I’d never asked for
Or fortune
Worth this cure.

– J. Pigno

Tell me
All about angels
In the song of your
Every step
As a blessing
Heard distinctly
Within
What melody drifts

Across
These gleaming stars
Beneath
Our private moonlight
Where chirps
Like long sonatas
Begin
Each nightly ball

Stringing
Nature’s sounds
Into woven hymns
From gestures
Too real
To be dishonest
When trailing
Every path

We walk
With shuffled feet
And turn
From nearly dancing
Praising God
This instant
Is a tune
Which never lasts

For more
Than beating dusk
To a change
Of quiet mornings
Ushering
Frequent silence
So the rhythm
Hides its pulse

Amid
Such sheltered days
And people deaf
To dreaming
Or love that’s losing
Anthems
Between each poison
Sun

Defeating
Sacred voice
On terms
Of bright deceptions
Obscuring notes
From glaring
Its beam
Of focused lies

Ignoring
Soulful dark
Like jazz
Of lost romantics
Tangoing
As we wander
Among shadows
Lost and found.

No saint
Can ever waltz
Without that guilt
Of knowing

All truth
Is raw expression
Black
As rawest dark.

– J. Pigno