Our struggle is not against words,

But the lies and misunderstandings of a world whose fear kills freedoms in the pulse of hearts who speak-

The ones which dare obsess and defy that erroneous cadence at the core of bodies tethered by what strings our art can snap.

Their continuous, maddening rhythms pulsing still with beats expressive are indicative of sheer
potential that will prove our masters wrong.

Amiss, much like our roles inside vacuums called existence,

Playing jobs unlike our forebears working hard by embracing life.

This joy seems out of touch, vaguely sick and strangely nauseous, as our poems grow redundant seeking paths towards shedding shame

How such pleasures could endure within spaces man inherits where our loss itself feels welcome as each term inspires death.

Torn, from limb to phrase –

But ignored, as every sentence misses marks of punctuation hanging corpses margins pose.

Though I’m privy to such ends, its perhaps the other doorway swinging open out of blankness which appeals to fading breath –

Empty slates that just appear during memories least expected since unlocking shuttered portals hinged on moments gone too soon.

Feelings almost find me warm beneath prose I’ve sewn like blankets, fighting frigid air exclusive to an atmosphere so cold –

My page, a fallen tent,

Among lines of ruins scattered

Where the snow of dreams writes wishes between trees of forests thick.

Some men build camps for fire.

I destroy them without question

After spending nights enduring every thought that shows me home,

Far away, beyond these fears made of saddest whites encountered any winter’s touch should sully raining soot upon those drifts.

For Bohemia, my sun, melts this path which morning beckons and tomorrow’s gift of promise slowly guides through trusting faith –

Believing God has plans better loved than daily torment of our middle roads we travel from complacent hopes they mark.

What war we wage with beauty is that battle for transcendence, fought by idle prophets begging and impoverished saints who sleep –

Who fuck, who eat, who dance,
who in laziness bear wisdoms,

And by victory usher daylight

Bringing dawn upon their gifts.

  • J. Pigno

There was never
A brighter sunshine
Than the days when
God seemed close
Between each cloud
On mornings
Where that light above
Felt free

Which peeked
An incredible glimpse
Through His candid skies
What blue proved dreams
Lay waiting
Beyond these signs
Hung low

In relative terms
By sight
Looking out upon
Motel cities
Like blemishes
Glowing with neon
Obscuring stars
Come dusk

After asphalt
Grew too hot
And then burned our feet
While playing
Lost among those cars
Left idle
Sporting plates
From states so far

Leaving honest tips
Near tables
Atop dressers
Counting scratches
Behind TV sets
Still broken
Telling news
Without its sound

Under lamps
My mom had fixed
Housing crumbs
Or wrappers crumpled
Grabbing cookies
For some dinner
Within alcoves
Humming noise

Saying junk food
Nourished souls
Passing quarters
If she made them
Often waiting
For new tourists
Rarely willing
To share change

Since they noticed
Empty rooms
Curtains drawn
And working parents
Only seeing
Swaying palm trees
Not how desperate
Dawn appeared.

  • J. Pigno

Some families
Beg for

While others
As teachers

Though most
These children

Should exert
Their efforts

Being raised
Beneath those

Failing still
Yet gaining

Carried once
That blanket

Swearing safeties
Such dues

Never paid
Before they

Freedom means
That broken

Speaking out
Against our

Never asked
When soon

Now enforced
Beyond such

Art agrees
Is worth
Detaching –

Mom or dad
May always
Love you

But no parent
A scribe.

  • J. Pigno

That booth
In the far left
Corner –

It’s where
I last felt

Amid days
You’d take me
And buy us
For two.

Back then
There were no

Or lies
Of gifts
Which spoiled,

Just dialogues
Sharing existence
To narrate
They implied.

But, mom,
I’m an old man
Whose prose
Means less
Than silence
Between these lies
We’ve fashioned
If fantasies
Could talk –

Soon imagining
Death can’t come

And joy once lost
Should linger

Among those
Memories cherished
Where sunshine
Still seems

Coming through
Such windows clear
Looking out upon
Parking lots

In brightness
Showering strangers

That walked
With bags
Towards home.

My mind since
Seems so full

Obscured too much
By answers

While your smile
Holds questions
Like sun
During times
Long gone.

Only age
Proves solace
Within tears
Wrinkled eyes
Might glimmer
Apparent divinity
Inside souls
Youth stays
Left behind.

I’m your little boy
Who sits

Eating fries
Yet savoring

On forever
Our afternoon

At a mall
How heaven
Will look.

  • J. Pigno

He’d find
His faith in boxes
On the stoop
Where dreams
Would languish

Like proof
Of childhood wishes
Left behind
Since days
Grew long

Handed over
With no words
Ringing doorbells
In silence

Watching shadows
Walk off slowly
Through that entrance
By glass

When tomorrow
Came too soon
Inside cardboard
He worshipped

Housing solace
Gone so easy
After praying
They sold

Were redemption
Bought online
Or true need
His itch
Had promised

Was important
If uncertain
Any item
Could quell

Always present
Within mind
Tearing tape
Each hand
Would fasten

Thinking someone
Touched this parcel
Hoping joy
Should last
Much more

Than an object
Might provide
For salvation
Yet fleeting

Finding God
Delivers answers
Bringing shame
From empty

– J. Pigno

He’d woken from
His dream
That was filled with
Fallen ashes
Of a winter dark
And frigid
Showings futures
He had feared

Huddling closely
Behind logs
Tightly holding
Hands which trembled
As he heard
His father whimper
Catching fallout
On his face

Watching snow
Bring end of days
As his mother
Left their shelter
Soon exposed
To die besides him
Knowing hope
Had long been lost

Startled only
By that scream
While the motel lights
Had flickered
Come this morning
God revealed them
Like bright signals
Flashing sun

At a brick
And mortar chimney
Near the roadside
Not too distant
From his window
Glazed with moisture
While November
Howled its winds

Catching glimpses
Of that fate
In the early dawn
Sniffing scents
Of burning wood chips
Smelling griddles
Sizzling meat

Stepping out
Upon new routes
Where his nerves
Had left him stranded
Along 209
So quiet
Among cars
Who barely passed

Strolling gently
Towards that path
Amid houses
Dark like ruins
Braving leaves
And fallen branches
Finding plaster
Smeared with blood

Upon lime
Which seemed untouched
From such fingers
Frail or mortal
Hiding age
Beneath each detail
Proving art
Had taken life

Seeing Mary
Shed her tears
Crimson red
But oddly gorgeous
Yielding gifts
No man desired
Learning marvels
Carried doom

Humbled still
Before his God
Taking heed
Of truth apparent
Feeling prophesy
Revealed purpose
Beyond omens
Sleep disclosed

Dabbing stains
Below Her cheeks
Asking questions
Sobs had answered
Without peace
But gore indignant
Easing sins
His heart contained

Gaining foresight
From its source
Chasing grace
Through Pennsylvania
Now discovered
Between shambles
Life delivered

Getting back
Inside that truck
Thinking nightmares
Meant forgiveness
Driving off
Without that sculpture
Never mentioned
Once again.

– J. Pigno

And now there is
No more sin
As your kiss
Still pains me

Even though
Our mouths
Hold answers
Even God Himself
Can’t speak

Said between
These earthly drills
Like long trials
But telling

Shedding reasons
Skin confesses
From before
Both lives

Over decades
Lost on lips
Seeking partners
If willing

Feeling wrong
Besides connection
Or devotion
By choice

That despises
Mortal need
When indulging
Which linger

Building friendships
Fallen victim
While these hearts
Grow bored
So quick

Fumbling solace
After thrills
Thinking real
Means joy
Too fleeting

Always fighting
Hoping futures
Break those fears
Such bonds

Banking fate
Upon decisions
Merely forced
Where love
Seems errant

Trading lies
Since every promise
Beckoned rings
Their hands
Won’t wear.

Now I see
This truth is harsh
Pledging death
Should part us

Simply gorgeous
Once intended
But in hindsight
With use

Proving pleasure
Honors men
Yet destroys
What soul
Pursues it

Giving vows
That sacred purpose
For redemption
Can’t ruin.

– J. Pigno

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
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

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

On my tongue
That tells what’s fake
Quicker than
Those memories
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
When pressed,

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

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

– J. Pigno

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

Through a phrase
Which keeps
Despite what eyes
Should grace

Or believe
That page which
And bemoans
Those quiet judgments

When readers
Such meaning
Despite how ink
Can change

In time
Not always sure
Their opinions
Have much

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

Bleeding souls
On empty space
Trading paper
For art’s

Swearing fires
Spread His message
Atop heads
Whose passions

Scribbling text
No man escapes
Leaving lines
Like age

Now immortal
After chasing
Fame as hollow
Near death.

I am proud
My verse exists
But alone
This need not

Learning flesh
Prohibits glory
Playing roles
While feelings

– J. Pigno