Five Poems from Tom Pescatore

Bio: Tom Pescatore can sometimes be seen wandering along the Walt Whitman bridge or down the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old Skid Row. He might have left a poem or two behind to mark his trail. He claims authorship of a novel the Boxcar Bop (RunAmok Books, 2018) and the poetry travel journal Go On, Breathe Freely! (Chatter House Press, 2016).

Still Life

a creek drainage

                           –down the hill
below the development of
snow covered plastic houses
whose assembly line windows
watch the continuing storm through
clones of door clones of space
clones of lives–

               rests stagnant in milky orange night 

recedes as the oppressive aura of street lamp grows
wider
          brighter
                         definite
like a ship’s light winking out of the abyss

Salt.

through claw marks
     a frothy white piss

                                     on my window shield
fingers draw rifts in the snow

the blood wheel between my nails
                                                        turns kidney pink
like a body of stone
     salt lingers above the freezing line

when the pavement gives out the road sinks like footprints

leaves a fleeting trail
                                   like a baby’s first words
                                                                       
for the hunters to follow

exhuming the unfinished corpse

we are tasked in the painting of the village’s faces.

they are death masks made of living

soil.     worms boil up to the surface boring

eyeholes into the facade. the stench is that of

the earth.     the earth is that of death.

the mask celebrates life.     the mask celebrates

the opposite.     only at night can they be carved.

in the morning they will be fashioned. we are tasked

with the setting in place.     we make the lines

meant to become mouth with our claws. we breathe

life into the mouth with mud red lips.

we dig deep and draw the iron out.

My feet dangling off bridges

thunder

        then

the rain comes;

when I was 13 I would close

my eyes and walk across

Macdade Blvd

                        into traffic

the cars never found my body

or understood why

they just hurtled on into their future

leaving me there btw the lines

to mourn their passing

in the chamber was left one bullet

for Jami…& Roger

the trigger pulled and your brain escaped

there was no magazine but the house rang

hollow after the quake

in the chamber there was left one bullet

it burrowed itself into the wall

to die

the smoke took the form

of your youth drifting away

beneath the floorboards

the basement was bathed in your blood