Deception
Cuts these tails
To let such blood
Run rampant
Between subjects
Barely speaking
As if truth
Is always wrong

Clinched
Inside these prongs
From destinies
Thick as metal
Confined
Within each tether
Like victims
Of our tests

Bound
To final breaths
When wound
Around those fingers
Of forks
And pointed phrases
Exchanged
Through heated speech

On flesh
Of captured mice
Split
Like hairs unsettled
From wounds
Or open gashes
With damage
Clipped by words

Being
Just too real
For experiments
Meaning nothing
Argued as
Important
But lethal
As this space

Distance
Drawn of hate
With constructs
Of our masters
Which have us
Running circles
Along wheels
That stay in place

Cages
Making homes
Of frantic creatures
Begging
For wrong
And harsh instruction
Through windows
Nearly cracked

As they pounce
And worry sick
When blaming
Fellow inmates
Scared
Without accepting
Denial
Hurts them most.

– J. Pigno

Why do I try
And mend
What’s beautiful
For being broken
At request of a world
Less fortunate
Than ones
Who see past
Its shit?

Cause nothing
Worth playing God
Is normal
Or nearly straightforward
As fallacies
Lining our pathways
Towards endings
Less boring
Than sin,

Concluding
As we begin
Revving
Our hearts
Without answers
Or promise
Of stunning conclusions
Awaiting in skies
Getting dark

Where fireworks
Better appear
Than brightest days
Proving empty
Like clearest dreams
Missing dangers
Ruining
What fun
We could have –

Making mistakes
As we must
Losing control
As intended
Finding no hope
In such actions
But letting
That faith
Guide us back

Inscribing night
With those stars
Which glitter and spark
From our damage
Through explosions
Colorfully dancing
Like statements
We claim
When they burst

As destinies
Fallen apart
Raining choice
Out of heavens
Over lifetimes
Apparently wasted
On cinders
Left burning
With hurt.

That spark
Is never convinced
But assumes its gift
Is potential
For making light
Across bridges
Too crowded
To offer them
Space,

This needless whole
Unredeemed
Which hinders
Joy
Growing distant
Among those clouds
Hiding embers
Stealing words
While we write.

– J. Pigno

In fear of
My next death
Is the way I’m
Forced to live
When expecting
Each new moment
To become
That sudden last

Clenching
Near this chest
With an ache
Obscenely different
As the one
Which pains before it
And drives me
Raving mad

Diffuse
Without a trace
Or cause
I can establish
So vague
To keep me guessing
Where in doubt
I find some truth

Reaching
What they warned
Is the loss
Of keeping purpose
But achieving
Clearest freedom
By virtue
Of gaining none

Taking
That next step
Through romantic
Ideations
Of heroes
Seeking absence
As a remedy
To their ills

Claiming
Tragic ends
Are the pill
I’ve always needed
And embracing
Bravest monsters
Like the stones
We left unturned

For most
Could use real help
Despite their lies
Of protest
From smiles
Hiding secrets
No darkness
Ever speaks

Omission
By release
Of a blankness
Clearly stated
In the note
They leave adjacent
To the rope
Which swings alone

Silent
As that end
Which tells us
Almost nothing
Except this fact
They’ve bartered
With misery
Long enough

Troubled
By their Lord
As if they’ve been
Forgiven
But villified
Even after
Redemption
Takes its toll.

Yes I’ve waited
Long enough
For that chance
To fake abandon
So don’t mind me
If I wallow
In these symptoms
Even more –

While they make
The greatest sense
To people
Always grieving
Such comfort
Through their worship
Is the hurt
Which never tells,

Agony
Playing games
With the heart
Of those bear it
And prayers
A blessed suicide
For the body
Breaking down

Believing
Every choice
Is an answer
Not exclusive
To the fate
That’s predetermined
Of a rest
Which has no peace.

– J. Pigno

Think I’ll wait
A while longer
Till terror comes
Spilling out of me
In hopes
That something different
May finally
Find this pen

Going back
To basics
Where I write
In shortest rhythms
By fear
Of skipping heartbeats
Which fuel such
Honest words

Worried
I barely seize
What terms
Are bound to fester
If the moment
Builds on anger
When neglecting
Voices heard

As agony
Rarely waits
For a chance
Not often taken
Amidst work
Or other dangers
That diminish art
With cause

To deny
My feelings bold
Or blood
I drip from moments
Filtered
By this inkwell
And distilled through
Purest verbs

Truths
I hardly seek
If not for
Spoken wishes
Which compel
My heightened senses
From the rush
Of spouting prose

Relishing
This past
That turns
From now to nevers
As I narrate
Awesome weakness
By the risk
Of stilted speech

How I miss
This guiltless death
Of confessing
Tragic endings
By suicides
Plainly stated
As expressions
Of gorgeous hurt

Learning
Frequent waste
Is fuel
For broken phrases
Unleashed
From changing persons
Who most likely
Stay the same

Decent
Though they claim
Their mind
Is splitting fountains
With cracks between
These spaces
Which cease
Such endless flow

An eternal
Place of rest
And debt
To running rivers
Cascading
Like this interest
In achieving
Perfect streams

My one
And only chance
Slipping through
These trenches
As I chase
That open dialogue
Of channels
Cut too short

What memory
I guess
Is deterrent
For these idioms
Which betray
My fairest efforts
To redeem
Such time I lost

Praying
Standing still
And believing
Passive triumphs
Are bound to come
Full circle
If I sit
Just long enough.

– J. Pigno

At night
I hear these ranks
Of the newly
Broken men
Who’ve seen their worlds
Come crashing
By request
Of a special girl

Watching cars
Speed fast
With headlights
Harshly gleaming
Through darkness
From my windows
Causing accidents
Not so far

That screech
Of halted wheels
And bang
From mangled metals
Which reveal
Such tragic endings
For vehicles
Driven mad

Like quick
And suited ends
As fate
Of skidding rubber
Enticed
By dangerous beauties
That rev
Such engines hard

Since fear
Of instant death
Deters
No smitten dreamer
Reliant on
Those passions
As fuel for
Choices bold

Reckless
Young and weak
Susceptible
To these feelings
With adrenaline
Spiking quickly
Each time her kiss
Succeeds

At inspiring
Pedals held
Too long for
Hope or safety
Before his time
Expires
Behind this wheel
She turns

And one big
Ugly mess
Becomes that wreck
Expected
For guys like us
Who listen
But know all motors
Fail.

– J. Pigno

Excuse these
Damaged goods
For being
So transparent
In the offhand sense
I’m willing
To share this
Open book

If it means
I’d soon believe
What persons
Stay too modest
When trading
Friendly stories
Like strangers
Missing souls

Figments
Barely fixed
On account of
Lifelike faces
Mistaking truth
With reticence
As they argue
Cracks can heal

While evidence
Sorely bleeds
From the wounds
Of mouths unspoken
Where hurt
Is silent entries
In diaries
Lacking voice,

That speech
Of willing chains
Which keep their hurt
Still fastened
And tethered down
Exclusive
As if shameful
Of their pasts

Sewn
From thickest braids
Between lips
Remiss with bondage
To force
That awkward smile
On threads
Across each flap

Ribbons
Tied real loose
So the chance
Appears elsuive
But possible
If they’re aiming
To pray
Through wordless stares –

How I never
Envy pride
For its lack
Of bearing witness
As the pitfalls
Of such clarity
Intend
I must confess.

– J. Pigno

This old body
Treats me rough
For the fact
I have abused it

From running low
On answers
To pursue
What fuel sustains

Existence hardly fit
For the mind
Which questions
Gimmicks

Like love
Or having children
As keeping score
Of life –

Things
I can’t believe
Are claims
Of righteous addicts

Accepting drugs
Called limits
Inside
These boring dreams

With pain
Admitting death
No matter
Of such causes

Trusting
Mortal judgement
More than
Reason should,

Where God
Decides each fate
Though days
Are still determined

By accidents
Thought suggested
In the tragedies
Of our choice.

Years
Not ours to win
But times
Intent on losing

Whatever hope
We muster
From the touch
Of passing hands,

Unlike
How I fight
This instinct
To seek feelings

And long for
Warmth so basic
Between arms
Of another girl –

Letting go
Of needs
I learned
Are undeserving

By words
Which come so natural
That I easily
Fall apart,

Rejecting
Food and faith
Family
And my future

Embracing
Bloody phrases
Torn from
Open wounds.

– J. Pigno

No need
For fancy words
Just the pause
From raw emotion

Which comes when
Simply feeling
This world
As God intends

With rough
But honest joy
Of experience
In our being

Frail
As passing evening
Towards morning light
Which comes –

Each day
Within itself
As time
Surrenders moments

To their quick
And sudden passage
Like blood
Throughout our veins

Maintaining
Steady beats
As we hit that drum
Within us

Whose rhythm
Is often dancing
To the pulse
Of thirsty souls

Drinking
Rays of sun
As we wake once more
Impassioned

For the gift
Of living mirrors
Through art
Of heaven’s choice,

This soil
Our dirty brush
New skies
An open canvas

Fresh air
A different calling
Of scents
From new dawn’s birth

And richness
Daily ink
By action
Of these stories

From treasures
Once decided
As the plot
Such choices make

Finding worth
On high
Near the point
Of lowest entry

Like pages
Long forgotten
Beneath piles
Of missing work.

Our mind
Is best creating
What dreams
Are mere reflections

Of the faces
All so different
With roles
In one big book.

– J. Pigno

Attrition
Is natural entropy
And agony
Lacking forgiveness
For the sake
Of prepared excuses
When appearing sincere
Before God

Highlighting
Truths of our lies
Throughout this plight
Of conviction
Rendered weak
From believing
Such easiness
Failure sustains –

What diminishes hearts
As we chain
Or chase these means
Across shackles
Like romance
Shunned by decision
Where lovers are sins
That we claim.

No, I am barely
Obsessed
With developing hurt
As it festers
Beyond this reach
Of redemption
Which betrays my soul
Though I fall

Farther
Into relief
While avoiding blood
Without penance
At the source
Of inspired angers
Reddened by hope
Gone unfound –

Scapegoats
Biding my days
Counting scars
Towards forever
Amassing guilt
Nearly flawless
So the hemorrhage inside
Doesn’t stop.

– J. Pigno

No great
Star-crossed love
In this sea of
Forever what-ifs
Just the changing
Tune of indifference
Set to a lonely
Dissonant jazz

Where daydreams
Call my bluff
And soften blows
With wishes
I cling to
While I’m crashing
When pillows
Grow their arms

Like fictions
Kept intact
For survival
Of this heartbeat
Which longs to seek
Its rhythms
In sync
Beneath these sheets

By gifts
Of restful sleep
As the hands
Of sweetest poisons
Pour syrups
Swallowed weakly
From the spoons
Of angels real

Tonics
Dry and flat
With a hint
Of aging flavors
Purported
To be medicine
For the souls who drink
No wine

Bitter
As staunch belief
Uncorked
From bottles waiting
Among stones
And cobwebs nestled
Within barrels
Built of fear

Cellars
Cold yet damp
Mindscapes
Missing sunlight
And tragedy
Through this silence
Of my bedroom
Dark and dull

How direction
Has no chance
For its line
To be distinguished
Like notes
Of vying players
In a band
Without one voice.

– J. Pigno