We are kids
Of particular daylight
Which pooled like lies
Over tables
As a certain sun
Captured evidence
How such paling meals
Appeared bright,

Sharing measly dreams
Eating junk
Beside windowed booths
Peering often
Onto asphalt lots
Knowing memories
Were just cars that passed
Missing plates

Under hanging screens
Taking orders
Between corners dim
Spilling nachos
Always leaving love
With gratuities
From unspoken tabs
Never paid –

Every easy scene
Dearly missed
Before daily lunch
Grew expired
At the hands you faced
Nearly starving
After asking God
For dessert,

Since most got jobs
When they sold
Having mouths back home
Needing paychecks
While our IV arms
Scour ruins
By each promise kept
Looking where,

Fearing noon would fade
Very soon
In these malls shut down
Spending decades
Lost among what stores
Remain open
Only if these hearts
Truly stayed.

• J. Pigno

I long to find God
In the subtext
Of a sea
With ill-fated vessels

On this bay
Where missing departures
Mean each voyage
Will rarely return,

From those ocean shelves
Growing steeper
As they further sail
Far beyond them

Toward shimmering depths
Never witnessed
But until that ship
Always sinks –

Still below what blue
Merely beckons
If such wayward keels
Fail intently

When revealing faith
Barely navigates
Every jagged wharf
Facing waves,

Wading starless nights
Over shorelines
Across building sands
Nearing jetties

Like lighthouse dreams
Losing beacons
After traveling life
Long enough.

My celestial coast
Remains buoyant
Despite treading fears
Pulling tightly,

Since drowning hulls
Create undertows
Even Christ Himself
Can’t escape –

Those beliefs
Soon heavenly roped
Beneath peering masts
Seeking beaches

One single knot
Claims assurance
How Salvation’s wreck
Clutches hope.

• J. Pigno

My life is an old
Grey cartridge
Left buried between
Splitting faces

Under bins
Behind cluttered plastic,

Beside furnaces
Dim like this house,

Where kids
In that basement tradition
Repeat such days
Using cables

With analog cues
More inspired
Feeling static
Before it was weight

Of colorful scenes
Seeing shapes
As monochrome lines
Over backgrounds
Tracing rendered worlds
Almost empty
Being certain
Those levels were there –

So real
Despite seeming fake
To the decades spent
Learning memories
Are games themselves
We experience

Now our language lost
Fearing play,

By becoming scans
Barely traced
Along cathode tubes
Above wood grain
Hiding discs
And tapes needing rewinds
For believing ghosts
Get their turn

At controllers held
Thinking back
When another dead friend
Nearly visits,

All alone downstairs
Still attempting

Just one last round
Never shared.

• J. Pigno

There are dreams
On emptying streets
Of a city
Where the muse
Has faltered

And faded brick
Under streetlights
Turned her murals
Instead
Into walls

Which warn each day
Needing grace
And color
Like sun
Missing seasons

For one last soul’s
True expression
Among voices
Failed
Growing up –

Those reasons lost
Seeking faith
Or perhaps
That hand
Holding palettes

Still splattered by hues
Spilling purpose
Drawing signs
Our God
Never shows

With prayers intent
Through release
Such ecstatic
Belief
Once depicted

Over altars found
Almost anyplace
If their worship
Remains
Wasting time

Letting fantasy
Writing new rules
Prove how stories
Alone
Utter meaning

Speaking tongues
Since brushes
Will wander
If inspired again
While we paint.

• J. Pigno

All funerals
Seem to be reruns
Of a cathode soul
Soon expired
Like our tube TV
In that bedroom
Where no one sleeps
But their ghost

Who traces rays
Through each mind
Though projects with fate
Sudden pictures
Which pale from light
Glowing faintly
Left behind what screen
Still exists

Yet remains on waves
God allows
Now recording days
Moving slowly
By engaging pain
Flipping channels
Until signals fade
After twelve

When rewinding scenes
Once alive
Searching memories bare
Fixing tracking
Between audience laughs
Hearing loved ones
Leaving final goodbyes
Over tapes

Since midnight knows
Every run
Only broadcast kids
Truly jaded
Could sustain beyond
Syndication
Watching time explain
Why we lost

How adjusting knobs
Dialed back
Proving things were right
While premiering
Shows us empty prayers
Toward nostalgia
Making monochrome
Feel so at home.

• J. Pigno

From that August sun
There were shadows
Which followed us back
Every evening
Down Victorian rows
Tracing sidewalks
Whose pavement cracked
Near the shore

And pursued our steps
Where we stayed
Across asphalt lots
Turning jagged
Watching countless cars
Come to visit
For their failed escape
Overdue

Before season’s end
Chasing neon
Or saltwater tears
After ice cream
Whose boardwalk dreams
Weren’t romance
But hearts left here
Going home –

How rented beds
Welcomed hosts
Laying echoes
Between faded linens
Like electric lips
Leaving whispers
With desk lamps on
Needing light

Fearing hands
Caressing such cheeks
Of lives spent lost
Seeking leisure
Only youngsters know
Booking getaways
Finding places
Haunted by ghosts

Buying trinkets
Being good guests
Making memories
Startled at seaside
By sweltering souls
Always fearing
What management
Never disclosed.

• J. Pigno

There’s an audience
Watching me sleep
From behind this screen
Always dreaming
Of another bad joke
Hearing laughter
Through each night
Unsure if they’re real,

But listening close
While I fade
Into restless lulls
Making judgments
Using scripted lines
Faking gospel
Since echoing life
Static chose

Where commercials chase
Little deaths
And between short scenes
Premonitions
That explain such fears
During daylight
Over flickering walls
Shadows play

For transient shapes
Never gone
While reflections tape
Missing actors
Who portray our sins
Almost comical
Like analog tried
Being real.

How sitcoms trace
What we lost
When enjoyed so late
Grown delirious
Yet perceived as grace
Glowing dimly
Over bedroom shelves
Hiding dust,

Until windows share
Morning’s glare
Which punchline lands
After credits
Only darkness reads
Slowly giggling
Feeling stale come day
Seeming canned.

• J. Pigno

There is radiance
Caught in these drifts
Of a snow which seems
Never melting
By the afternoon sun
Feeling warmer
While reflections gleam
Over ice –

Solid tonight
Though we wait
Seeking dreams less cold
That remember
Our childhood wish
Merely frozen
Until days too long
Nearly pass

When lunch includes
Steaming mugs
Still chipped from use
Being clumsy
Whose homemade meal
Always lingers
Like such comfort tastes
Bittersweet,

Where grilled cheese sits
On your desk
Or her TV plays
Silly sitcoms
Since mom cooked hope
More delicious
Than Spring’s new warmth
Growing stale.

This season builds
Bigger mounds
With dangerous banks
Blocking traffic
Down one-way streets
Getting older
Until icy chunks
Reappear,

Singing songs
Each winter prefers
Pushing one last breath
Blowing chances
Some fantasies lived
Took for granted
Only sleeping again
Will allow.

• J. Pigno

There’s a train
Which runs before dusk
But arrives back home
During daylight
Just to catch what sun
Still remembers
Every hour of life
Never changed

As enjoyment fades
When we age
After chasing skies
Turning orange
Over evenings now
Spent commuting
Down another lost track
Always close

With our paling faith
Become clouds
Hanging answered prayers
Like decisions
From ignoring time
Merely reaching
Holding hopeful hands
Only once

Where God had graced
Better dreams
Since believing love
Was her station
Waiting cold and long
For his winter
While forgetting again
Summer passed

Across golden roofs
Seeking chance
Beneath burning rays
Gently turning
In spectrums warm
Along avenues
Behind chain link fence
Hiding stairs

Each empty stop
Must observe
If meeting again
At Bay Terrace
Letting closing doors
Leave us hanging
Seeking miracles
Locally found.

• J. Pigno

There is no claim
Beyond words
Which carry my heart
Through this basement
Letting bookstacks lay
Almost dormant
With each verse inside
Still unsaid

To stake what faith
Catches dust
After years down here
Grown complacent
By the light of screens
Glowing static
And their analog hiss
Dearly missed

Like old whispers
Of permanent grace
Through rewinding scenes
Barely perfect
As yesterday’s sound
Always stutters
What my broken ears
Only catch

When that fading light
Tosses back
Such monochrome scenes
Nearly gorgeous
Along musty shelves
Hiding artifacts
Between figures sat
Over tapes

For reminding hope
Mustn’t tell
Yet express in pain
Trading glimpses
Of those schoolyard ways
Almost innocent
Though oddly harsh
Staring back

Pressing play once more
Seeking proof
How these films long gone
Aren’t trophies
But nostalgic junk
Under boxes
Keeping poetry here
Where it starts.

• J. Pigno