My father
Says
All poetry
Is pretty
But makes
No dough.

I think
That’s just
The point –

Cash
Is an ugly
Thing.

– J. Pigno

Things
Might be
Alright

But no
They’re never
Quite easy,

For I’d learn
This now
Before winning

Because failing
Isn’t always
A chore –

Sometimes
It’s what
We need

To value
That gift
Of each moment

Where triumph
Is often
Reclusive

Behind
Such cover
Of clouds.

Even when
Losing
Our faith

Just to witness
Skies
Being opened

Like curtains
Of doubt
Falling gently

With answers
In rain
Coming through.

So follow
Your heart
As a guide

And remember
To censor
That critic –

Our mind
Comes second
To passion

And the world
Even further
Than doubt.

– J. Pigno

I’ve got
One lousy hand
To pen this
Fearless sentence
From the mouth
Of broken answers
Which runs
Right through
My soul

Jumping
Through these hoops
Like dogs
Of trained expression
While words
Which spell disaster
Seek shelter
From its
Grip –

How synonyms
Leave their mark
As basic scars
Of changing
What incorrect
Nouns of circumstance
Manage
To take their
Risk

Making things
Just right
And never far
From framing
Identity
Within format
Of pageantry
Born
Of schools

Not a message
Best conveyed
By a reject
Made exclusive
By profession
Of his devices
Which wither
Away
At bones

Whittling
Tiny shapes
Drawn like bars
In margins
So the verbs that chase
Each spirit
Break free
From chains
At last

While sacrifice
Often begins
As it stifles
Flow of lefties
Or “queers”
Who write
Indignant
On opposite sides
Of the page

Praying
Change admits
How deviance
Ushers acceptance
Even when
Slight variation
Brings subtle
But certain
Shifts

Through experience
Some admit
Or confess
How wisdom
Is garnered
By enduring
Excess abuses
Of adversity
Claiming its stake

Discovering
Harsher names
Each time their mind
Progresses
Toward limits
Once thought dangerous
To leaders
Who think
Inside lines

Bizarre
Yet quite unfit
For the world
To deem
Outstanding
As a notion
Hung for daring
What questions
Perfect script.

– J. Pigno

For months
I’ve sought relief
From this ceaseless
String of symptoms
Which break me
As they worsen
Till my mind
Responds in words

So the fear
Of coming death
Is that much more
Substantial
While harnessing
How it festers
To convey
What hurts me most

Narrating
Sudden twists
Of traumas
Inconclusive
Deemed by doctors
Mental
On papers
Pushed and signed

Fake
As stabbing pains
From neurotic thoughts
Obsessive
Awaiting their final
Chapters
Between cracks
In hospital walls

Among beds
Where sinners lay
To confess their penance
Readied
Through torture
Of each motion
Or test
Performed with grace

As diagnostic
Pleas
For a cureless ill
Which begs them
To prepare their
Tragic endings
By embracing
Fragile bones

And lives
As ruined saints
Who find their God
When swearing
By heavy-handed
Suffering
That relieves their art
Of choice

From destiny
Fallen sick
To the dream
Of martyred wishes
Like truth
I battle daily
Uncertain
What comes next

Poems
Hardly rich
As they pass
Without absorbing
The fullness
Of each notion
Which comes with
Losing blood

Thankful
There’s no way
To express
This body failing
Through phrases
Worth sustaining
What rots
Inside my guts.

– J. Pigno

I’ve been
Called “faggot”
Enough
To know that
There’s no family
For a man like me
Unworthy
Of anything but
Blood and spit

Even when I take
Their brunt
Of insults thrown
Too easily
As forms of love
Kept ignorant
From the ones
Who said
They care

So detachment
Fuels relief
Where anger
Is better managed
As a loathing
Rife with secrets
Which startles
This aching
Soul

Pining
For better days
Or times
When hate
Left silent
Was seething
All the while
Though trinkets bought
Were gold

Preserving
Gems intact
Of the relics
Saved for nothing
Like pictures
Housing wishes
Of smiles
We always
Faked

Among memories
Kept in bins
Beneath stairs
Of darkest basements
Cheap
And unassuming
Of the pain
Contained
Within.

– J. Pigno

Don’t act
Like you know
Those depths
Of raging nausea
Which embitter
My aching senses
And force my hand
Towards death

Wasting
The last of days
Through hours
Spent on counting
Long seconds
Between these minutes
To feel each pang
Of hurt

As bile
Toasts its glass
Raised
With stomachs churning
And delivers
That ugly message
Of deliverance
Meant to hurl

Ready
If I’ll ever be
For this exit
Not quite suited
To a legacy
Undigested
Of poetry
Left behind

Glad
I wasn’t a man
To appease these verbs
Who made me
By virtue
Of supposed “gayness”
That manifests
In my words

Not the kind
You’d ever use
But create by
Gorgeous sickness
And utilize
As that compass
To navigate
Seething pits

The sort which
Have you bleed
Just enough
For beauty waiting
Among trash
And hopeful rubbish
To burst
Inside your chest

Like pockets
Of noxious gas
And vomit
Set on spewing
What arrogance
Finds me queasy
From consuming
Pain so raw.

– J. Pigno

Let’s see
If I really die
When pushing
My heart
To its limits

In these tried
And tested
Gauntlets
Of obsessive compulsive
Relief

Raising my pulse
Too fast
While I bike
On an empty
Stomach

Drinking
An excess of water
In hopes
That my weight
May drop

By the time
I wake up
Depressed
From restless dreams
Come morning

Where terrors
Turn into daylight
And sunshine
Reminders
Of sleep

Which never
Provide
Enough grief
As much as this need
For adrenaline

When writing
Exposing those frailties
Like bleeding wounds
Dry
On a page

Through sweat
My lingering
Chance
To lose all breath
For a moment

And capture
That genius in transit
As it travels
From heart
To this phrase

Even before
I can choose
To stop
Such habits
Cold turkey

Knowing
Some might be
Dangerous
Despite the fact
They bring words –

For the world
Is used to
Seeing me
Naked
Without any clothes

Thank God
I’m just a poet
It’s okay
I pass away
Nude.

– J. Pigno

There is always
A sense of
Closure
In places we least
Expect

Like on faces
Of those children
I could swear
Were nearly
Yours

Shining
Through each smile
As their mother
Held them
Gently

Telling me
She was gifted
After heaven
Took you
Back

Thinking
There was no
Chance
For hope or
Second-guesses

Until her eyes
Beheld them
And miracles
Grew so
Real

Much like
I had wished
Would happen
For these
Questions

Open
As they festered
In the years
Since you had
Passed

Leaving
Little room
To interpret
My own
Demons

Believing
That this absence
Was hurt
I dare not
Face

When I struggled
To persist
Despite
What warmth
You gave me

Feeling
Undeserving
Of tutelage
You had
Shared

Knowing
I wasn’t there
As they mourned
Your soul
To bury

Because
My recent heartbreak
Was just
Too much
To take

Even
Where you had
Tried
To get us back
Together

Bridging
That massive distance
I feared
More than
My life

Proving
Just how brave
That woman
I came to
Cherish

As a real
And loving
Mentor
Was guiding me
All along

Right up
To this day
Learning
You still are
Watching

Hearing
Your daughter
Mention
How to you
I meant so much.

– J. Pigno