Jason Visconti
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





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.

Not unlike,

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.

And lastly,

May I say,

One may always get help.





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