I was never
One for pride
As it makes me
Feel unsettled

For ambition
Is always
Hubris

Behind what work
We choose.

– J. Pigno

My gear
Is standing
Still

Though faith
May never
Fix it

Or turn
That hanging
Second

From a feeling
Locked
In time,

And mend
This broken
Piece

As hours
Caught
On waiting

For answers
Lost
To minutes

Where clocks
Can somehow
Change –

That face
If etched
With pain

Or hours
Raised
Like phantoms

At the edge
Of pointed
Needles

Near arrows
Held
By choice,

What fate
Is spun
Each day

Through redeeming
Breaths not
Taken

When counting
Fear
As passing

Such deathly
Pause
We take.

– J. Pigno

No length
Of frantic texts
Holds words
To do us
Justice

In breaths
Of honest waiting
For that chance
We’d come
Alive

Like stars
Within our space
Between lies
And glaring
Distance

Upon
Such heavens wasted
As these fingers
Dance their
Curse

Where screens
Not feelings dwell
Amid answers
Cold
But fitting

For fixtures
Hurt
From bearing
What gifts remain
Unseen

Bright
As futures
Sold
By the persons
Praying solace

All love
Which stays
Unnoticed
Need not break
Their curse

Beyond
That phantom touch
Of a heart
So rarely
Captured

Among
Those quiet wishes
When each day
Falls into
Dusk

Finding
Lonely tasks
Are the fuel
Which spur
Resistance

Despite
What reaches
Challenge
False skies
Of empty worlds

Typed
Yet never
Sensed
Or shared
As flesh intended

While smells
And other details
Fade quick
Like hinted
Bliss

Proving
Fate can last
If only
Phones were
Human

Programmed
Not for telling
But an app
Which takes us
Home.

– J. Pigno

I honestly
Could give
A fuck,

But that’s
Just being
Facetious

Cause if
You really
Know me

It’s clear
How that’s
Untrue.

– J. Pigno

We feed ourselves
These lies
So things
Might be okay

But if
You’re actually
Looking

None of them
Really are.

– J. Pigno

All truth
Remains elusive
In the context
Of this speech
When phrases
End abruptly
At these margins
Of our voice

As pages
Tell their edge
On point with
What’s been written
Between such answers
Riddled
By the worpdlay
Of said games

Like tantrums
Boldly fed
Through lines
In tattered papers
And rips
Depicting weakness
Where hands
Had tore one piece

From walls
Holding displays
So the angry eyes
Can fester
As we pass them
Unobservant
To our feelings
Sorely shared

Revealed
As tiny print
But read like
Rawest nothings
Dismissed
For empty closure
Among dreamers
Dared to care

Conversing
While we lie
Across those notes
Left scattered
From fragments
Losing meaning
Like static
Upon our breath

Cause silence
Has its cost
But talk
Is being greedy
If parties
Bleeding idioms
Are hanging
Endless woes

Forgetting
Verbs are gray
As the actions
We attribute
To morals
Keeping purpose
Alive
Within this book.

– J. Pigno

Let this pulse
Outrace itself
As my pressure
Fall obscenely
Upon such shoulders
Weighted
Like a heart
Which lifts
These stairs

With grief
I can’t begin
To sort through
Crumbled pieces
Of sheetrock
In that basement
Caved
Beneath old
Floors

Like collapses
Meant to last
As long as breaths
Stay burdens
For interims
Keeping prisons
During lifetimes
Bound
And gagged

Amid
Most recent floods
Near boilers
Burst with anger
Releasing tears
Of feeling
Across remnants
Stained
By fear

Allowing walls
Called God
To deter me
From that plaster
Where holes
Peek into endings
Under tarps
Of troubled
Lies

While concrete
Looks so grim
As if that slab
Seems wasted
Without
My body
Broken
And sprawled atop
Its mess

A reset
Hard
But cold
To remind me
Death is waiting
Beyond their
Trampled landings
Unstable
Though they pass

Each house
A splitting plank
Wedged
Between two choices
Which both seem
Unfulfilling
When the furnace
Breaks
Our crash.

– J. Pigno

My fear
Of dropping dead
Is the joke
Which keeps
On playing

Each time
This heart remembers
To beat
Even when
It skips

Wondering
Why I’m scared
Despite
That constant
Giggle

From losing breath
Too quickly
As I realize
All must
Pass

And fall
Through what
May end
While forevers
Wholly empty

Assume those laughs
Tomorrow
Are the tears
We always
Shed

Today
Before that ledge
Near the mic
Our hearts
Should punish

For adoring
Crowded theaters
Filled
With tragic
Jest

On stage
Without much luck
Baring pain
Of acts
Committed

Like a curtain
Falling swiftly
Where the skit
Continues
Still

Begging
One more quip
Or bit
Which keeps them
Guessing

If the story
Sold as humor
Is a truth
Few dare
To speak

Parading
Sold-out shows
As a triumph
Born of
Envy

Jealous
Smiling faces
Clutter
The first few
Rows

Ignorant
While they grin
And roar
At fake
Misfortunes

Forgetting
No such audience
Is exempt
When lights
Go dark

Staring
Into their glass
As comedy
Echoes
What faces

Of a rare
And living mirror
Reflect
That final
Wish

To be heard
And equally scared
Of the act
Which opens
Feelings

Applying fate
Through chuckles
And shrieks
For similar
Gags

A stand-up
Invitation
To relate
From sheer
Morbidity

Insane
And oddly relevant
The more honest
Each farce
Gets

Believing
Some may care
Where others
May just
Snicker

Regardless
How they exit
Or refuse
The prank’s
On them.

– J. Pigno

These poets
Who read at home
Wait long
Till the lightning
Trembles
And evening
Begins its thunder
To find reasons
Worth being
Alone

Defining
Fate through words
As far as their mind
Can venture
Like weather
Still making them
Quiver
At sounds
Of a rain
Which breaks

In night
Through clouds
That pass
Blanketing skies
Amidst darkness
Wet as fears
Unrelenting
Remembering storms
Are their
Prayers

Recalled
Like puddles by name
As remnants
Of scattering pages
From notebooks
Which jaded
Those voices
By tearing them
Up
Without chance

Exposed
To the crowd
Which laughs
Gaining
A gift so relentless
With phrases
Ripe for the taking
Where lessons
Lay
Among ash

Cause beauty
Doesn’t pay
These bills
Or meaning support
Second guesses
When braving
The margins unfiltered
Of blessings
Burned
Beyond black –

Lifetimes
Guarded with rage
Within
Closed worlds
Of their choosing
To imprison
Hail
Behind windows
Upon old walls
Showing cracks

Scratching
That clearest need
And talent
To quietly witness
What passes
For threats
They can’t handle
But shyly
Admire
Through glass.

– J. Pigno

Even
The hippies
Held jobs.

But me?
I can’t
Just settle

To wait
For loss
Incarnate

When work
Means art
Comes last –

Where hurt
Is painful
Sex

And misery
Finds us
Begging

In bed
With dreams
Less stellar

Now fucked
Without much
Love,

For applause
Is hardly
Grand

And rewards
Such easy
Payment

After chasing
Down our
Freedoms

So forever
Is sweet
Escape

From lives
Of stolen
Men

Old gods
And empty
Blessings

Like hopes
Which keep us
Willing

Though hells
I must not
Yield.

– J. Pigno