Really
I’m not worth much
But a show
Of empty fingers
And palms face up
So telling
Of hands too cold
To feel

This broken brand
Of sad
In spirit but also
Reason
Where loss
That matters greatly
Is just my kind
Of hurt

When roads
I walk to work
Are chessboards
Of disaster
Waiting now
To happen
Each time
I cross this street

Imagining
Easy outs
Or playing fate
With stoplights
As the morning
Gives no answer
Or truth
I care to seek

Wandering
Into traffic
Or staring down
These buses
Which tell me
Keeping purpose
Is a useless task
For chumps

The ones
Who can’t believe
This all might be
Called nothing
To a God
Who dangles pleasures
Along lines
Of give and takes

And run me down
So bold
Without even
Having questions
Of a life
They’d take regardless
If the car had hit
Or not

To prove
It’s just some game
Beyond
What man can measure
Or control
Within these senses
Limited
As his scope

While the wind
Just seems to pass
And carries me
Even further
Toward a dream
That’s unrelenting
And impossible
As that gift

Shaking off
This dust
From the filth
Of city mornings
And urban lie
Called order
Peddled
Like special dirt

Allowing
One more chance
For seconds
Becoming minutes
Over hours
Eaten slowly
To make prisoners
Of us all

Forgetting
Partial deaths
Or suicides
Called commuting
Are miracles
Begging difference
And rebellion
From this lie

Though to most
I’m just a nut
Or a “fag”
With no ambitions
Scared of
Growing older
And alone
As well deserved

Wishing
Art was proof
That vehicles
And their dangers
Are conquered
By my visions
And desire
To break free

Though I hope
It just can change
As much as prayer
Is futile
Or evidence
Of conviction
Among desperate hearts
Who wait

Hollow
As I am
During bouts
Of sheer depression
Staring at
Angry drivers
I believe
Know more than me.

– J. Pigno

My fear
Of traumatic events
Is the gift
Which leads me
To them,

Bridging
What little leeway
Exists between
Panic
And death –

Keeping things
Very tense
And feeding
Such anxious
Feelings

No matter
How rare
Or infrequent
Each experience
Happens to be.

Making me
Lose my cool
And swerve
When driving
Erratic,

Believing this heart
To be failing
While begging
Thin air
For a breath.

Rushing
With fear
To stay calm
And checking my pulse
In this mirror,

Thinking that end
Is impatient
As color
Escapes
From my face.

Learning
I’m probably safe
If only
For the briefest
Of seconds,

So my pulse
Returns
To normal
And this ride
Resumes once more –

Forever
Into unknowns
And tomorrows
Beyond
Fair reasons

Or certainties
Left imbalanced
By the prospect
Of varying
Fates.

Mortal
Though hardly sane
For ones
Still willing
To witness

Such fleeting
And weak securities
Transient
And wrongly
Assumed.

– J. Pigno

I don’t deserve
A good woman
Because real men
Are intended
To work

Doing things
Hard yet beautiful
And struggling
Each day
For their kin

Cracking
Thick folds
In their hands
When building lives
Out of branches

Where stones and bricks
Aren’t suited
To homes
That are crafted
From strength

Allowing them
Truth
In their sweat
Like honest drops
Of distinction

With hours
Written as creases
Across jagged
Lines
On their face

Where besides him
She eternally
Waits
Resting her hand
On his shoulders

As he bears
That weight
Of survival
If only to have her
Once more

Unlike
Some have been
Called
To commit themselves
To misfortune

Kneeling
At thrones
Of their muses
Who inspire hurt
Which creates

Providing them
Soulful reprieve
From loneliness
Trailing
Each sentence

As it enters
Hearts
Of those readers
Smart enough
Never to judge

For most
Can’t possibly see
This weight
Of inflicted
Decisions

And emptiness
Drawn from abandon
Which accompanies
Burdens
Called waste

These poems
I’ve sworn
Cannot beg
For pleasures I’ve learned
Are elusive

But merely
Capture their essence
As I slowly
Die
From their words

Like the husband
I never will be
As the answer
Inside
Has been written

By a goddess
Whose kiss
Evoked passions
Since the day
I lusted for verse

Guiding me
Further
Towards God
Or woman within
Who I worship

Carrying faith
As her witness
To a message
Not normal
But fair

That comfort
And wealth
Isn’t hope
Or a sliver of truth
As expected

To ones
Who are chosen
For greatness
And loved by an angel
Which waits

Destroying
All hopes
For a chance
Of having such bliss
As depicted

In marriages
Warm
And convincing
That worthy
Is never this phrase.

– J. Pigno

I’ve got
No blood to lose
Or carry
These feelings stifled
Across my body
Rotting
From ambitions
Stunted with waste

Decaying
As idle sickness
Festers
With aching passions
Destroying
Rebel tissues
While dangerously
Making me wait

Forcing
This startled hand
By fears
And bile building
Into killing
Such written medicines
After willing
My own demise

Numbing
This only cure
To remedy deaths
Experienced
Within dreams
So utterly nauseous
They demand
Reality wakes

Out of answers
Caked in shit
Or potentials
Laced with vomit
And necessities
Detrimental
Like the illness
Called our lives –

For terms
Are just disease
And claims
Of deadening tissues
Consuming hopes
Around me
As they beckon
Imminent death

Gangrened
Without choice
Or the proof
Of God unwilling
To confirm
His final miracle
Which raises flesh
From pits

Leaving things
Still unknown
To create that art
Resilient
Which begs
For keeping relevant
Before my time
Can pass.

– J. Pigno

This loaded
Gun of miseries
Is aimed at
Point blank
Range

Triggered
By hands
Of consequence
Which deem me
So unfit

Readying
Brutal death
From bullets
That travel
Slowly

Through flesh
I now consider
An extension
Of human
Guilt –

My evidence
Growing old
And pale
From long
Misusage

When choosing
This able body
To starve itself
Weak
With fear

And shattering will
Like bone
Blasted
By choice
Into pieces

Leaving more
Traces of failure
That drip
From a hurt
So red,

As damages
Build
Over time
Like clots of
Memories wasted

Thicker
Than crimson sacrifice
Which paint
Those walls
With loss

Garnering
Little shame
Or judgement
Beyond all
Reason

To prevent
Such true disaster
Of a life
That’s claimed
By itself.

Some ends
Are far more
Literal
Even if done
Unwilling

Physical
Though barely noticed
As they are
Just figments
Of speech.

– J. Pigno

The only fate
Worse
Than cursedness
Is being
Far too blessed

And owning such courage
To know this
While admitting
The rest
Have it rough,

As bearing
The rich kid’s burden
Was something
I learned
To live with

Each time
They were quick
To judge me
Without ever reading
My words –

For truth
Is never convincing
From materials
Built
For exchanges

But a spirit
Which rings eternally
From the echo
Of phrases
In ink,

When goods
Fall victim
To ages
Quicker than fiction
Grows heavenly

Upon eyes
Of readers interpreting
Those verses
As tangible
Chance

Denying money
For substance
And the problems
It turns
Into privilege

By sharing
What hopes I imagine
Are divisible
Equally
With God.

– J. Pigno