Stones
That are somehow
Caught
In the crevices of
My shoes –

How long
Must they
Stick?

What paths
Do I carry
Behind?

Beneath me
Without intention
To drag
Each road
Along.

– J. Pigno

I wait for you
On this couch
Near the first place
We had kissed
Telling myself
Old stories
From a time
Our world had hope

When summer air
Did wane
And autumn chills
Grew distant
As these hands
Which reached for solace
Found forever
Being grasped

Though my fingers
All alone
Plucking strings
Of stiffened metal
Strum at chords
That say them better
Than these memories
I can’t face

But receive
Through open notes
Broken tones
And partial ballads
With such sadness
Barely measured
From one melody
Incomplete

Speaking songs
My silence wills
Amid hours
Made of panic
Passing judgment
While I’m pacing
Towards this future
Unfulfilled

Fearing death
Appears as fast
Among dreams
We’ve come to witness
Are those wishes
Growing dangerous
Where fruition
Takes our breath

Finding God
Between her arms
Stealing life
With every smile
Taking steps
Far into heaven
Never waking
If I must

Just remaining
So she lives
Falling ill
From being frantic
Knowing love
As real as this is
Has my tragic fate
In store.

– J. Pigno

I’m forgetting
How to exist
With each word
That’s left unspoken
From this child
Held within me
Like these poems
Losing voice

And their phrases
Missing breath
Through such lines
Of broken rhythms
Skipping beats
Which have no pattern
By some meaning
Unresolved

In a heartbeat
Said with ink
Telling lies
I’m still believing
Building walls
Around my answers
Deep inside
This splintered lung

Taking air
That soon escapes
Seeking terms
On fleeting currents
Hasty drafts
And fading seasons
Where these gusts
Are empty winds

Holding fate
Like blowing leaves
Chasing gales
Of days expired
From old times
I keep forgetting
Out of innocence
Sullied quick

Beyond pasts
Which linger slow
Over lengths
Sustained indifferent
To what dreams
My soul aspires
Gasping hard
For blessed death

Trailing close
Each uttered verse
Far behind
Our God awaiting
Whom he’s gifted
Free expression
Riding coattails
Of their work

Failing life
By gaining faith
Finding truths
Among my demons
Making mountains
Out of molehills
Writing prayers
That won’t convince.

– J. Pigno

It’s so damn
Superficial,
Such pursuit
Of material wealth;

Living in
Vacant mansions
With your family
Left outdoors

Where some of us
Always wait
For our chance
To finally enter

What castle
Begs this damage
As disclosure
Of lost gold –

Real treasure
Missing stones
Like their rare
Yet sparkling glitter

From old faces
Hiding plainly
Among boxes
Stashed and stored,

While keepsakes
Craving souls
Still imbued
As family relics

Endure attics
Throughout ages
Made of dust
And darkened space

Finding light
Shines empty grace
Proving faith
Has little meaning

When our torment
Is expecting
Every day
Will meet its end

Behind windows
Sitting draped
Within basements
Called our bedrooms

Under floorboards
Fallen victim
To the bulk
Of men above

Counting checks
Their demons cash
At expense
Of being widows

Barring wives
Or living children
From that sun
On upper decks

Till wet ceilings
Slowly cave
From old pipes
Near splitting plaster

Bearing leaks
Which weigh too heavy
Cracking holes
Across each seam

Learning burdens
Surely crash
Upon cellars
Once neglected

Just as riches
Only matter
To those kings
Who dwell above.

– J. Pigno

I haven’t
Earned my time
Or anything
Else
For that matter

From defining fate
As an asset
Of success
That’s built
On belief

Like gifts
Which only appear
If God
Himself
Has to offer

What riches
Spoil our answer
Through faith
Not gained
In advance

While damages
Ready their grief
And determine
Pain
Is the payoff

Of a trade
Withstood
Feeling guilty
Sitting idle now
As I must

And dream
No fortune awaits
But an apathy
Learned
Per complacence

Preparing life
For rejection
As these words
Lose pulse
With my heart

Pounding beats
Out of sync
And assuming
Death
Is their privilege

When my mind
Spills truth
Over anguish
Sitting still like rain
Beneath clouds

Stealing breaths
So real
They are deep
As a phrase
Of brief becond chances

Near pools of waste
Growing thickened
By a verse
I’ve shitted
In fear

Along this road
Called relief
Or perhaps
Just fair
Compensation

Where hurt
Unpaid
Keeps insisting
Such terms
Are a valueless debt.

– J. Pigno

I used to think
My words
Were a way of
Keeping healthy

Ignoring the fact
Each poem
Was some problem
Unresolved

Or an ailment
Trailing death
By that leash
Of bare expression

Like some virus
Bound to damage
With a syndrome
Unexplained

Seeping through
These veins
Of a fractured verse
So desperate

No author
Worth their sentence
Could just bear
To hold them back

As this blood
Soon trickled down
Upon pages
Meant for ripping

Like thick waves
Of crimson letters
Begging truth
In open script

Where my body
Decomposed
Was that wound
Of gaping wisdoms

Telling lies
Which offered secrets
If you read
Between each hole

When such flesh
Had fallen ill
And this heart
Had suffered rhythms

Out of sequence
With these phrases
Though my sickness
Was that chance

To prove hurt
Had summoned fears
Seizing guilt
Without my notice

Drawing strength
From shattered faces
Missing eyes
Which never seen

What this rot
Left in my grave
As that gift
Of empty spaces

Like a limb
Detached while waiting
For its whole
To fall apart

Knowing bone
Can only stay
If belief
Had any vestige

Within texts
Of dreaming corpses
Living each day
As their last.

– J. Pigno

There is no
Perfect fit
For a ring
Which has us binded
And assumes
This show of promise
Is best said
On our hands

But instead
Just dangles close
To the finger
Of its bearer
Reminding them
How distance
Allows for
Sudden change

And assumes
All needed growth
Has gifts
To keep things special
Like diamonds
Shining brighter
In light
We don’t expect

With faith
Still left to spare
Where space
Just doesn’t matter
Between those
Silver linings
Or gold
If you’d prefer,

Spinning
While we pace
On this axis
Of our measure
Loose
As hope intended
For life to swell
Like flesh

Retracting
From old age
But clinging
To our knuckle
Reminding us
That symbol
Endures
No matter what.

– J. Pigno

I’ll waste my second chances
Before this tide can pass
Wading in deepest waters
Above what fear may drown

As truth in never guessing
How fate just won’t relinquish
All these spoils left with shipwrecks
Stowing treasures lost and found

Like riches seized from age
And forevers raised by dreaming
When our oceans house no pleasure
But that answer swallowed whole

Into brines of murky depths
Or thick swells with muddled reasons
Turning God into that vessel
Now consumed by growing seas

Hiding meaning within sand
Losing hope through every relic
Sorting gold from drifting ruins
Proving life is sinking fast

If tomorrow begs our wave
For some peace or certain knowing
That such faith can conquer surges
Hiding secrets dense as foam

During nights the surf is thickest
Where each shore erodes from waiting
Under moons of missing pieces
Scattered far across this beach

Near old glass that broke apart
Beneath stars of fallen heavens
Resting somewhere underwater
Like these risks I wouldn’t take.

– J. Pigno

What hurt it is
To sleep
When fear
Is the dream which lasts
And continues well
Into daylight
Chasing each dawn
I’ve sought

As these headaches
Stunt my words
Through this night
Of throbbing penance
While my memory
Often fails me
In the sense
No morning comes

But continues
Waking death
For all pain
Remains unconscious
At that core
Of resting demons
Between bedsheets
Housing grief

Missing voice
But nothing more
Finding silence
Has its reasons
If our souls
Remaining quiet
Learn their place
Beneath that weight

Telling truths
No man admits
Till they break
With stuttered speeches
Tearing stars
Right out of orbit
Pulling moons
Into our midst

From those comets
Raining down
Speaking gifts
Of scattered heavens
Fallen skies
And distant planets
Proving fate
Is in their heads

Deep within
Each sullied mind
Begging dusk
Reveal some secrets
Though they turn
And shudder weakly
Just as darkness
Steals their breath

Like I’ve sworn
To always seize
If my phrase
Should surely linger
Beyond shadows
On these ceilings
Where this evening
Never ends.

– J. Pigno

Our mind
Is the terminal illness
In a system
Which wants us
Dead

Believing aches
Are an answer
To explain
Such bleeding’s
Cause

With guilt
That drives us mad
And its need
For empty
Spaces

Leaving holes
Which beg fulfillment
At the cost
Of absent
Faith

Like wounds
From lack of dreams
Or a time
When hope
Had reason

For excusing
Veins left open
Whose tears
Would close
With age

And begin
Their healing late
Before God
Himself
Could notice

And muster
Courage willing
To redeem
His children’s
Chance

Exploiting
Chosen grace
As the leverage
Once deemed
Human

Now destined
For long penance
At the hands
Of meaning
Lost

Where blood
Is running tabs
On the debts
Of weak
Genetics

Taking gambles
With our faces
Every instance
Love
Is made

Within bedrooms
Guarding threats
Telling tales
Through sex
Indignant

Turning lies
Like spinning spiders
Caught in webs
No heart
Escapes

Among dangers
Woven thick
Threading knots
Which capture
Secrets

Hanging gossip
Beneath ledges
Dangling names
Whose sin
Is known

As we all
Reveal our end
By the silk
Of mortal
Needles

Gauging egos
As our compass
For the fact
There is
No cloth

Though these bodies
Fade so slow
And decay
Without much
Effort

While we choose
To cut our fabric
From the cure
Which rips
Too fast

Praying hate
And money spent
Tighten seams
Of seeping
Crimson

Pouring scarlet
From their stitches
Proving life
Is damaged
Goods

Stacking crates
Of ugly souls
Mangled flesh
And missing
Purpose

Yielding truth
To filthy numbers
From a math
Less cruel
Than fate.

– J. Pigno