The man
Whose talent dreamed
That his life
Might be important
Has now
Discovered failure
Offers so much more
Than shame

In poems
Left unsaid
And their values
Learned through silence
With each meaning
Lost on answers
Only words could prove
Are wrong

Chasing Hell
Between those lines
Finding flesh
Shares common phrases
Touting death
As human triumph
Best expressed
If gone for good

Gaining secrets
God won’t share
Always passing
Precious pages
Down to sinners
Still intruding
Upon nothing
But such peace

Where my heaven
Quiets speech
When tomorrow
Remains honest
Before breathing
Feels so empty
Even dialogue
Stifles air

Stealing days
I just don’t have
Wasting winds
Time often carries
Across decades
Deaf from waiting
Every moment
Chances scream

How forever
Bores this soul
Facing judgments
Come too early
Loudly claiming
Tranquil wishes
Never tell
Of true success

But diminish
Present gifts
We exchange
By staying vocal
Despite fearing
Insignificance
Blunders prove
No mind escapes.

– J. Pigno

A controller
Left unplugged –
This relic of
Short-term freedom,
Sits on top
Old carpet
Where each stain
Proves patches
Speak,

From these hands
Which fumble cups
Sipping cola
Laced with sadness
As its flavor
Mocks such sorrow
Leaving sweetness
Like some
Curse

On my tongue
That tells what’s fake
Quicker than
Those memories
Perish
Watching decades
Dance through shadows
Flipping channels
While I stare.

They invoke
Synthetic light –
Stations summoned
By my choosing
Through thin fingers
Struggling gently
Against buttons
Hard
When pressed,

Where resistance
Seems absurd
Since my sanity
Grows distracted
Facing levels
Beyond dangerous
Losing lives
I can’t
Repeat

Every evening
Fate ignored
Becomes leisure
Duly challenged
By existence
Feeling futile
Amid games
God often
Plays.

– J. Pigno

The beautiful thing
About words
Is the way they
Prove
We’re living

Through a phrase
Which keeps
Enduring
Despite what eyes
Should grace

Or believe
That page which
Turns
And bemoans
Those quiet judgments

When readers
Choose
Such meaning
Despite how ink
Can change

In time
Not always sure
Their opinions
Have much
Reason

For condemning
Faded margins
Still imbued
By God’s
Right hand

Bleeding souls
On empty space
Trading paper
For art’s
Sickness

Swearing fires
Spread His message
Atop heads
Whose passions
Burn

Scribbling text
No man escapes
Leaving lines
Like age
Incarnate

Now immortal
After chasing
Fame as hollow
Found
Near death.

I am proud
My verse exists
But alone
This need not
Matter

Learning flesh
Prohibits glory
Playing roles
While feelings
Last.

– J. Pigno

The privilege
Of losing sleep
Bears splinters
Which pin
My soul

Against what flesh
Feels rotten
Sweated
To death
In this bed,

Like a shell once
So inspired
Which is now
Just vomiting
Phrases

Giving me
Countless wishes
For words
That actually
Speak

Without much thought
Or need
While emphasis
Seems less
Sacred

When expression
Forcibly rendered
Cuts fists
Since handling
Wood –

Those sharp
And pertinent dreams
Tearing skin
Through days
Expired

After years
Of juggling faces
Sporting masks
From terms
Unsaid.

These lies
Show fallen logs
How each verse
Hides precious
Timber,

Shedding bits
Beyond description
Housing needles
God
Might touch  –

Rather than
Idle threats
Missing points
Sharp angles
Threaten

At times
Our fear
Smooths edges
Among knives
Called life itself.

– J. Pigno

That screen
Which glows all night
Reminds me
Time’s not moving
Outside
This bedroom window
Where the cold
Still passes through

As if fresh air
Could change
What thoughts
Keep proving restless
Among these
Recent relics
Like gifts of days
Now gone –

Too soon
If one should ask
How fear appeared
In tandem
With death its
Frequent shadow
Upon doorsteps
Quickly closed

After hearing
Fate has come
Seeking breath
Without exemption
Breaking locks
On shuttered houses
Stealing lives
Before they wake,

Deeming sleep
Life’s certain end
Wasting hours
Barely dreaming
Between cycles
Lacking meaning
Knowing reasons
Just repeat

For avoiding
Solemn prayer
When our TV
Flashes comfort
Bleeding light
Around those edges
Within peril
Come each night.

How new danger
Feels so real
Beneath pillows
Over faces
Losing air
We steal regardless
Letting slumber
Smother faith,

Since all heavens
Seem absurd
During hours
Darkness lingers
Finding God
While flipping channels
Staying anxious
Though He laughs.

– J. Pigno

Kid,
You’re only as
Special
As the wallet from
Which you came –

The scrotum
Of poor investments
That made life
So incredibly
Wrong,

Whose existence
Failed
To give back
Beyond what breaths
Not taken

Bore words
Undeniably fruitless
Despite
How much
They say.

I’m not worthy
Of silver rings
Or some vow
No faith
Could promise

At the hands
Of decent persons
Sharing love
Which God
Demeans,

With each dream
I always chase
Thinking verse
Tells more
Than worship

Where devotion
Proves prodigious
Through this flesh
Entwined
Like lies –

A gift
Believed inside
Open mouths
Whose questions
Linger,

Wasting efforts
Building friendships
Over decades
Bound
By loss.

How romance
Grows undone
Learning bodies
Fail
Their purpose

Long before
Such chances settle
On which moment
Fate
Gives birth.

I swear
Its proof persists
Among hearts
Now finding
Answers,

Spreading poems
Between hoaxes
Shedding light
While darkness
Calls

Dead men wishing
Feelings blast
Within veins
Collapsed
From traumas

Hiding needs
All humans cherish
If addictions
Seem
Less hard.

Though perhaps
These phrases last
Even when
Raw passions
Dawdle

Upon waiting
For permissions
We assumed
Our parents
Said,

Pounding futures
Into dust
Knowing debt
Killed more
Than kindness

But demolished
Any semblance
And desire
To have
Sex.

– J. Pigno

I believe
How these aging toys
And the dream
They once
Represented

Hide a kid
Whose wish
Has been silenced
After putting them
Back in their place

For nothing
But repetitive tasks
And stubborn lies
Which keep
Failing

At encouraging
Days worth living
Beyond
What fears
Became work

Before songs
Only heard inside
Redeemed
Each soul
Still committed

To an innocence
Openly humming
Those melodies
Tinged
With relief

By characters
Forever pure
Whose fantasies
Shaped
Our existence

For tomorrow’s truth
Disappointed
Such play
Is perpetually
Lost

On salaries
Making us sick
Trading angst
While we
Socially distance

From imagining
Human potential
As some child’s
Bear
Being hugged

Now together
Just sharing space
Even smiling
Though they seem
Saddened

Knowing soon
Separation beckons
Upon shelves
Facing decades
Ignored.

– J. Pigno

My breath
Deep inside those
Pockets
Is the change
You’d wished
Held meaning

From the wallet
Filled with reasons
For believing
Life
Had none.

That’s me
Unworthy of air –

Finding hope
Where cash
Was folded

Along threaded lines
Through denim
Near their dollars
Placed
On seams,

That dividing line
Like fear
When cruelty sworn
Was shelter
Becomes answers
Dreaming freedoms
Between fringes
Cut
By truth.

These ties
Are tattered cloth,

Our ambitions
Different measures –

Such anger
Wounded bodies
Patching lies
We’ve always sewn.

My blood
Has only words,
Never rags
Or leather pouches

Holding wealth
Which fears us
Naked,

Bearing needs
No soul can grasp.

Good art
Shows signs
Of wear,

Just as fashion
Tells
Its story –

This “loser son”
Will sport them,
Each abuse
Called “love”
They sold.

– J. Pigno

Somewhere just off the boulevard, there is a mural of a homeless man shivering during winter while the rain makes tears appear – pouring gently down his face, unintended but too perfect, by God’s nature proving worthy of that symbol lost through sun.

He sits among these relics starting soon to look abandoned – shopping malls and shuttered storefronts, crowded centers fallen dark.

Amid empty parking lots emerge signs of faintest protests, along streets with fading echoes with the sound of passing cars – whose sirens would keep him fleeing if not for his stoic image, immortalized on buildings like a vision of crumbling brick.

For art is his only place now, a reason to still endure between the once-bustling mainstays of my youth grown eerily silent – despite cops and shattered glass, the rage which marches forward from an ongoing encounter with what finally proved us wrong.

To him, this plague doesn’t come as a surprise or tragic bombshell.

It was the curse that always was, the hurt which festered slowly, a proof of genuine malice in his bleak and damaged hole – a pit where victims begging get the things they never want:

Hunger, fear, and apathy raining judgment like they’re right.

He just needed a warmer coat. He didn’t ask for a job or role, with cash that wouldn’t comfort as it never could save the rich.

Yet we plead each day for a cure, thinking mankind need not suffer for millennia of petty evils building slowly to this point.

You see, the gig is up. Your professions, banks, and politics.

Your unjust laws and answers wielding authority like some knife.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about why our time has passed.

About sin, about our choices, about sickness running rampant.

About fated repercussions making so much sense they hurt.

Like that image forever gazing upon
those who mock his freezing, I too am bleeding anger near the curbside of this world.

Paying us no mind, they still laugh at broken poets, cutting wrists for final traces of what soul we may have left.

Finding goodness wasn’t easy way before these doors were closed.

It appears almost impossible after seeing their locked response.

Pretending things are better, blaming everyone but our hate – anticipating order when that normal killed us all.

Don’t put rainbows in your windows, hang a cross for dead men walking.

That’s us, despite our efforts facing failures streamed online.

How do I even write waking daily with no meaning – learning more and more these verses are just words so few will read?

And if they do, how will it change them, or stir their soul entirely?

Truth is, it probably wouldn’t, as it hasn’t since I’ve tried.

I’m tired of chasing muses thinking angels shed their wings for the sake of manic dreamers painting freedom as their grave.

Tomorrow is losing heaven at these gates of hell’s expression – this canvas so damn empty of those colors hope might bring.

That image, he is me, as I am that unseen figure watching passersby ignore me sporting paper masks and bags.

My scene is open trauma, my graffiti tragic willingness to disclose whatever insight waning faith has blessed through doubt.

Somewhere just off the boulevard,
lies a book that has my name.

You’ll never get to read it.

Like that man, I’ve grown too cold.

– J. Pigno

Belief is an error in judgment, as faith is the fear which sings – a means of admonishing reason to nurture what soul gets lost.

It is beyond this strange discovery I catch my God at rest, sleeping beneath these memories of a life whose dreams make words – pure phrases said out loud along pages of raw feelings, inspired not by sacrifice but pursuit of a Lord unknown.

Whispers amid worry. Conviction out of darkness. Peace too undeserving for a man whose art costs work.

And yet His glory dictates, like passion from empty space – setting my fate into motion with a muse whose needs grow worse.

Her orbit finds me reeling at the center of doubt incarnate, juggling terms unsettling while Christ pours wine from sound.

Each syllable, an uttered gift – miraculous as they are fleeting.

Sweet, but never perfect – for heaven holds secrets well.

My suspicions of something greater drive pain pronounced as gospel, embellished across my margins as marvels revealing sin.

Such questions aren’t bad, it’s their truth which has me running.

I’m biding time expressing missing angels found through prose.

Aged as finest spirits, flowing rich like rivers endless – shallower than I’d promised touting praises verse should fake.

No sentence written well ever told of hell within us, implied only between wisdoms spoken shyly veiling dread.

How death will always come, stealing further things of beauty – undermining seeking purpose by preserving flesh past tense.

And books, they hide those scars, without witness but our Father – a deity so expressive Bibles bleed their worth on stage:

A church where hearts can burst, hearing triumph came before them, learning endings penned by devils were just drafts our souls could read.

I confess my only choice had these poems drink of scripture, spilling answers better swallowed since divinity always lasts.

– J. Pigno