|Jason Visconti is
a 35 year old freelance writer living in New York City. He is
currently attending writing workshops. He has been published in "The
Orange Room Review," "Blazevox" and "Word Salad" and has a poetry
book published called "The Death of Equal Handshakes."
At the far end of the yard
I remember who he was.
He stood with the stature of a God,
He achieved patience,
Any boy in fact could walk right through.
This is not to say he was permanent,
Certainly not with the jostling heel of his shoe,
Certainly not with the children scuffling
In the palm of his hand.
I envy that whistle that blew apart the school walls,
That circuit of danger back through the halls,
That boy who stood up being called.
That principal who watched above us all
A SCHEME OF SORTING IN A LIBRARYíS CELLAR
Ghosts gust through pages in the cellar.
Volumes are sorted by the slightest film of dusting
To avoid confusion, not unlike the indent on a monument
Or the sale price on a scarf
Or brail tacks tracking the blindís
Fingers slowly. Not unlike,
If you will,
The fingers of a lake working a bridge,
Slapping its waves against foundation,
Marking the page,
The eerie calm of the source
With words for adventure.
And I beg of you,
The close following of an incline
Topping a hill,
Those footsteps that measure
How we moved,
That great toppling down
To the A on its lonely shelf.
May I say,
One may always get help.
FOR JUST ONE MOMENT
To be a sprinter digging into the ground.
To be the musician whose hands canít drop.
To be a piano flying away with the beautiful.
To be a tree lurching down with something to say.
To be a bird circling blind.
A few flowers dancing in the wind.
To be a singer whose voice sweeps the land.
To be a certain crossing that can barely be seen.
To be a shadow measuring itself
And measuring you.
To be a dancer who flies floor to ceiling.
To be a magician on cue
Who will turn up his sleeve with no clue.
To be the cloud that has scattered
Into five baby parts.
To be the sun in its constant explosion.
To be the river that tramples the stones.
To be the lover who marks you first with his hands.
The ocean running into the sand.
Copyright © 2010 Jason Visconti