Here I am
Running in place
With legs
That won’t even
Along what lines
By an aimless
Towards death

Their certain gait
If inclined
To change directions
When such pace
Is fast
Of this route
They may have

Since engaging
Altered paths
Where no fear
Can stay
Through these phrases
Always stuttered
Like my limp
From hindered

Ever chasing
True relief
Now believing
Words I’ve spoken
Hide those subtle
Behind them
Leaving empty
As gifts

While my racing
Just repeats
Staying put
But still
At motion
Hoping outcomes
May be different
Losing track
Of how I’m

– J. Pigno

My frantic scribbles
True wisdom
Of the insane
As I write
Outside these margins
In a book
Which has no words

Or phrase
That shines its gift
Within spaces
Holding darkness
Like some treasure
Once enabled
By true fear
Still taking shape

Upon its page
Among lines
I mustn’t publish
If avoiding
Daily judgement
Of this sentence
Deemed unfit

Like each fragment
Spelling death
Chasing freedoms
Beyond coping
Proving art
Is merely desperate
To convey
Such rattled thoughts

Through expression
Missing faith
Ever joyless
From expecting
Certain persons
Worth believing
When they say
That prose is heard

To agree
My message speaks
And those poems
Show importance
Even though
I’m only wasting
What small talent
God could sell

Crazy men
Who grow so tired
Of their subjects
Losing meaning
Finding answers
Behind eyelids
Where new mornings
Seem absurd

Inside volumes
Of old minds
Thick as tomes
Obscuring daylight
Too exhausted
For enduring
Further torture
Life entails.

– J. Pigno

Believe me
When I say
This heart is about
To expire
From beating wrong
When it hungers
And slowing down
In my sleep

As verse
Just doesn’t express
What little breath
Can accomplish
Through uncanny dreams
Now waiting
At the end
Of a failing pulse

From death
Or some life which waits
Each time that skip
My rhythm
Still in tune

But dancing
During rest
Like escaping days
Through surrender
Proved eternal
If I never wake
At all

Simply passing
On my chair
Feeling lighter
Than these burdens
Floating gently
Above nothing
Some would call
His journey failed

Since existence
Hurt too much
Weighing profit
Over persons
Deeming value
More important
Than the soul
Which suffers blame

Halting rhythms
Spoken fast
Through this stroke
Of throbbing phrases
Spilled from veins
Inside my inkwell
Where depression
Bleeds its terms

Showing patterns
Always synced
Until morning
Steals with envy
These few words
I’m left expressing
Before dying
As they break.

– J. Pigno

Pretending I’m alive
For the sake
Of appearing
Is my only chance
At fighting
This existence
Deemed unfit

By aches
Which do persist
In daily errands
Waging wars
Against discomfort
As more practice
Towards that fear

Which rears
Its fading pulse
Throwing beats
Still out of rhythm
When real pain
Soon reaches climax
During dreams
They will disrupt

While such throbbing
In my sleep
Somehow wakes me
From their shelter
Behind eyelids
Begging refuge
Among heavens
Made of thought

Now believing
Every twinge
Is imagined
Without purpose
But what torture
God intended
Orbits death
Each breath I steal

Wasting time
He only gifts
If deserving
Of sheer terror
Where my tears
Hold purest feeling
Finding virtue
Within grief

Spelling words
And quiet prayers
Amid dangers
Briefly stated
Like one knife
Throughout my body
Making punctures
Inside flesh

Spilling verse
Besides this blood
So disabling
Though they’re freeing
Sharing wounds
As reassurance
How I’m here
Because it hurts.

– J. Pigno

These feet
Trail homeless leaves
Down each lane
Left barren

In places I’ve always
As a boy whose ghost
Still walks

Across what pathways
With branches
Rattled by autumn

Hail coming storms
Of winter
Like winds which kill
Too soon

As they tear from
Wooden limbs
Those nests
That break so easy

And fallen empty
At the cost
Of colorful lies

Who might see
My fated stroll
Among them

Between such
Covered crosswalks
Where kids
Find passage back

Toward doorways
Shining bright
Among thick
And piling needles

When acorns
Drop like pellets
Atop their heads

Near kitchens
Warm as day
Come nighttime
Creeping gently

Hiding faint
But apparent imprints
Behind each step
They take

As the invisible
Wandering man
Forgets his life
Once waiting

Beyond those neighbors
He haunts
Since chasing light

Death through drifts
Along those rows
Of windows

Holding memories
He can’t fathom
Even if that child

– J. Pigno

Would dare admire
The man
Whose work
Is words

If his phrases
Turn their profit
By accepting
As cash

Since intention
To be heard
Is indecent
Though it

All attention
Wasn’t fickle
If still focused
On that

Staying pure
But left obscene
Like depictions
From his

Showing signs
Of certain weakness
When expressing
In debt

At conveying
Richest truths
Without proof
Some writers

Lining pockets
While intending
Every term
Provide them

Despite starving
Among lines
Seeking meaning
Not so

Finding short
And lowly verses
Last forever
If they’re

– J. Pigno

Each word
Is another disease
Of a weak
And different strain
Which thrives
Not upon its victim
But the fact
Of his mortal

By instilling
Germs as fear
With their threat
A life inside him
Like this home
An easy killer
Slowly sipping
Through trust

Eating faith
On empty tanks
Craving nothing
But obsession
Towards expressing
Verses waiting
For that turn
Which never

What comes after
Breath has passed
Far beyond
Whose phrases matter
To such bodies
Left uneasy
Dying slowly
While they

Every answer
Lost in flesh
Gone from feeling
Certain pleasure
At ignoring
Untold sickness
Giving art
Its only

– J. Pigno