There is little
This autumn depicts
But the colors
Of once living
Memories

And their metaphors
Painted with branches
Whose leaves
Can elude
Better words

No bedroom sill
Ever glimpsed
Or inspired
Once
Proving distance

Between what hope
Remains waiting
Very near
Where its palette
Resides

Using death
As our outdoor brush
Speaking tongues
Like flames
Too indignant

Along broken twigs
Lining sidewalks
Over shoes
Which tread
Fallen gold

Showing landscapes
Richer from pain
Than windows
Closed
Fearing freedom

Expressed by God
Every season
When martyrdom
Breathes
Vivid ash

On desperate winds
Creeping in
Through glass
Left cracked
Begging nature

For one stray hue
Felt against us
Touching up
Each soul
Left behind.

• J. Pigno

I’m afraid
How the dead
Do dream
Beside our own
When we travel

On highways
Cracked
Over deserts
Where they meet us
Halfway to grace

In roadside booths
Trading looks
And coffee cups
Warm
But not teeming

As their contents
Spill every answer
By their wordless
Proof
Staring back

At a presence
Never quite sure
How each morning
Fakes
Even knowing

Which heaven
Alone
Remains closest
Finding diners
Stranded at night

For one last meal
Feeling blessed
Truly touched
This time
Through believing

Better angels
Dwell
Between pillows
Closing eyelids
Chasing that sleep

Seeking hope
Of living again
Losing semblance
Bound
Under bedsheets

Leaving days
Such miracles fail us
Only finding
Signs
Glowing past

Towards faithfulness
Neon redeems
Or inspires
Afar
Through its distance

Down routes
Unexplained
Worth repeating
This full tank fears
Always gone.

• J. Pigno

This reality
Waiting for views
Where the crash
Includes
Better numbers
Must narrate pain
Never noticed
As it weighs
Such grief
By machine –

Vindication
Failing on screen
In our breakdowns
Pushed
Like performance
But believed so real
After dreaming
Such mirrors
Show back
What we wish,

Or defend out loud
Being wrong
Proving smiles
Themselves
Very dangerous
When crying
Again
Needing reasons
Much other than truth
Seeming hard

For those unfair
In their stream
Leaving space
Between
Hidden privilege
On sponsored lives
Almost coded
Taking trips
With meaning
To sell

Over hurt
And comments below
All from profiting
Raw
Through engagement
Under lights
Near microphones hanging
Trading answers
Wrong
But designed.

• J. Pigno

Am I wrong
For the static untold
And divine unknowns
Between flickers
Where we dance
Through dreams
Over broadcasts
That still have me
Believe
She is real?

Always there like snow
Seeking voices
As her white noise
Fades
Into whispers
While beings of light
Fake projections
By stutters
Which speak
Broken words,

When night exhausts
Grainy visions
With prophets
Who paint
Dirty pictures
To resume old needs
Chasing muses
Now saints
Whose sleaze
Offers prayers

No analog tape
Ever claimed
Or effectively
Caught
Filming angels
From smiling coy
Posing gently
Letting hair
Contour
Certain grace –

A perfect escape
Before long
Until daybreak
Bleeds
Brighter nothings
Beyond our scene
Finding meaning
Just right
Seeing angles
Obscured.

• J. Pigno

I miss those days
When summer dread
Gave way
To an autumn warmth
And rising steam
On passing asphalt
Along these heavy old roads
Trailed vaguely
Behind each mirror
Our holiday
Made poems about
When your eyes told more
Staring back
While songs played
Ever so softly
With such distance
Fading like lyrics
Taking shape
Of another lost track
Coming back round
Looking home
Towards seasons close
Seeking stations
And the arms which love
Always stretched
Around my waist
Never full.

• J. Pigno

There are reasons
Registers click
And cock like guns
As drawers open

To remind all those
Left behind them
That bullets are green
When exchanged

With dead men’s grins
On their back
But our legacy sold
Under flagpoles

Of paper-thin gods
Only crucified
By those who fail
Earning more –

Forced ambition
Numbered by lies
Counting empty hands
Growing desperate

Through sterilized dreams
Still legitimate
Since everyone born
Must abide,

Choosing jobs
Since picking a side
Means losing faith
Always screaming

Calling angels gone
Seeking respite
Heaven’s shallow grace
Doesn’t share

While gathering wounds
If we work
Toward beautiful holes
Faking shelter

Though flowers above
Pillowed caskets
Make murder then seem
Such reward

For free enterprise
Saying goodbye
Yet buying up space
So exclusive

Now real estate held
After breathing
Spent wasting this life
In pursuit.

• J. Pigno

If memory
Stirs something real
Then why are ills
Called nightmares
Like our drowsy plays
Merely finished
By the art of hell
Long endured?

This angry dream
Bearing wails
Before each scene
Being written
Can find its thread
Weaving horrors
Through nostalgic days
Soon evoked

In plotted lines
Barely heard
Or spoken scripts
Over screaming
Which happens still
Upon waking
Seeing those long past
Live again,

Near empty hearths
Burning flames
From ghostly sparks
They ignited
With snow outside
Falling gently
Bringing embers
Besides frozen winds

When holidays fade
Holding pens
Not knowing how time
Becomes garland
Still stringed along stairs
Lighting pathways
Climbing up towards rooms
Never there

For hope
Since desperate reprieve
Arrives while pain
Offers stories
But conjuring home
Not so different
When sick as a dog
Losing sleep.

• J. Pigno

I spent my life
Wishing for dreams
On DVD screens
Seeking menus
Finding classroom scenes
Faking destinies
Where characters meet
By mistake

Under evening suns
Turning gold
Holding hands once more
Over rooftops
Hearing soulmates sing
During credits
Or until their hope
Seemed to pass

Which never quite did
Even now
When rewinding time
Poorly wasted
With imagined love
Too idealized
By idols who stay
While we wait

Letting hindsight kill
Little boys
Through grown up eyes
Seeing static
Instead of proof
There was innocence
Before our show
Went away

If hand-drawn wives
Could return
Like beautiful rogues
Building households
Having princess maids
Come and visit
Since ninja queens
Always go

Towards misfit kids
Barely old
Still adults that keep
Perfect visions
From formative lies
So ridiculous
Only sacred loss
Understands.

• J. Pigno

Why are words
Such kind reassurance
Of this twilight leap
Towards oblivion,

Where stories untold
Under street lamps
Are the far-off dreams
I can’t have?

Only poetry wakes
When it’s reeling
For reminding me still
There is wreckage

Beneath what gap
Beckons gently
By calling on names
Dearly missed –

Such beautiful ghosts
Screaming back
Still below that edge
Neatly written

After spelling again
Who is dangerous
Through their aching face
From afar,

If capturing whims
Feeling high
Though perceived but once
Every evening

Like lifetimes spent
Gazing downwards
At reflected stars
Over waves

Leaving breaking crests
Well behind
Across inlets dark
Hiding answers

Needing further jumps
Than imagined
To explain how art
Fucks us up.

Love may kill
Since remembering
Yet passion precedes
Fated endings

Finding meaning again
Slowly teetering
Knowing hope falls deep
Unexpressed.

• J. Pigno