III.
Crafted bliss in a mason jar
bubbles to the surface where its essence
dissolves into the sanguinity of the scene
before me at the pizza place:
The patrons are pole-axed
by Budweiser and trivia, by the amber menace
of the oven yawning as the timer ticks to zero
because nobody knows where lies Laos.
One girl shouts:
“Is that even a real place?”
Cheeriness fled me, replaced by the bitter of burnt garlic.
We fire our teachers and praise the wisdom of pizza
called “kicker”, and the Dream dies slowly.
Nicholas V. Miele, June 2011
originally read at PoemAlley August 2, 2011
The Beachead Wails
near a body of water where the beachhead wails
a casket empty save for the scales
an empty casket lies in state
where lady liberty is no longer magistrate
Ever since a miscarriage of justice stalks the soul
and a stillborn blows in the winds
the magnolia, incarcerated in sidewalk pavement raised from a stitch
strains perplexed, and in the dire wake of fall rails against
the wires woven of the wrought iron fence.
The government doesn't speak for us,
separate yourself from the state,
their defaults are a heavy weight,
we're getting nowhere at this rate.
That's what the magnolia says.
Enzo Malagisi, August 13, 2011
original to the blog
near a body of water where the beachhead wails
a casket empty save for the scales
an empty casket lies in state
where lady liberty is no longer magistrate
Ever since a miscarriage of justice stalks the soul
and a stillborn blows in the winds
the magnolia, incarcerated in sidewalk pavement raised from a stitch
strains perplexed, and in the dire wake of fall rails against
the wires woven of the wrought iron fence.
The government doesn't speak for us,
separate yourself from the state,
their defaults are a heavy weight,
we're getting nowhere at this rate.
That's what the magnolia says.
Enzo Malagisi, August 13, 2011
original to the blog
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