Five poems by John Kulogowski
Five poems
by John Kulogowski
Nine
It is twenty-seven degrees on the street,
Monday’s cold exhaustion
a reason to exit, to games
of numerology with the signs
and digital clocks
in my seat beside the window
during the bus ride from point A.
Each face I glimpse beneath
the chill, turbid afternoon
closes in on evening,
returns the troubling affirmation
of parallel universes,
ineluctable transmigrations,
the embrace of desperate ego--
presence of Being is running
a cache of stolen goods.
An old man en route to point C,
between expectorating on the floor
his distaste for the government
and sips of coffee
(“if you like a good cuppajoe,
try this place; ’s not bad.”),
explains that because the sun was
not eclipsed, he’d bathed
in vain.
I waited for some leap in logic.
Maybe I would run into you
there; the whole moving shape
to this ugly town would return you to me by
the grace of a lunatic,
his cup of coffee,
the invariable bus stops.
The old man worried
a fragment of magical thinking
like a broken puzzle piece
jammed beneath my skin
while I turned my head
and mooned over the thought
of happening upon you
in this mad, obscure place.
---------------------
Never Asked
Bad weather, he said, and fortunes not
predicated by the usual signs.
The celestial purviews were sopped
up with newspaper scrolls
on a lunchroom table beside mugs
of weak coffee, stale doughnuts and
those familiar will-this-day-be-my-day
lotteries.
Beneath the fluorescent light,
the long hair ghoul with impossible
eyes announces both the flawed
and the dead-on William Tell
horoscopes of the day.
He knows some of these workings
are fallacious, some theoretical, each a map
some fingers, save in passing, will never
touch.
That’s okay; he talks about
the drip and khaff khaff welling
like a blood-blossom rose upon his
daily blast as if he’d found his final
emancipation.
Something too far inside
to catch.
I never asked if he believed
in karma, but it came up anyway.
Its like me, like money as well--
That way it goes piss gold after
the paycheck, after the wallet--
Both of us can believe fully in only those
things we can not quite keep.
=====================
Isaac
for T.M.
It happens sometimes a tree frog’s bark
reaches me those nights
I doze upon the blank and dark
glass of another’s ignorant
tenderness.
The tropical regions--many miles
traveled and drinks drunk
in the silences between friends--they
obscure those spots where my eyes
are pressed, agitate worlds
of heavy sangfroid and I am
with the guerillas, a smile of bullets
cashed in my teeth.
The men clap each other and tell me to
pass “awake” though the voices of
the jungle tell me otherwise.
It is then I am possessed of this
tiny solicitude. As I leap over a picket
fence, an insect between the sidereal
world and this, I hear
the tree frog’s song.
I think I am its meal, forsaking my
gods a matte pane of glass
from a lost friend’s window.
I offer myself now for target practice
(laughing fearfully for a reason
I no longer remember)
to those who do not know
the simple trespass of dream.
+++++++++++++++++++
The Dictatorship of an Other
Here: I’ll keep it simple and
make a sketch, circumscribe
the line of your gaze,
or the clots of cloud
that hover above the offices and
shops when I go to clear my head.
I receive you like Philo’s God.
Somehow you manage to
swallow the entire town, and
yet you’re reflected in every
puddle, via negativa.
An interminable ego trip,
the signification of absence.
Somehow your throat gets
entwined with my shoe laces
when they are dragged
over the damp street.
One thought after another is
cleared out like a cough in
summertime; your switchblade
demesne cuts through my
steps, pendent with am and is.
Eventually the sketch overtakes
its bounds. The walls, the town,
my hands, my pulse. It seems it
never was you or she,
but desire desiring to be desired.
The simplicity becomes
too much with each attempt
I make to circumscribe the instant
I thought you out
and you, in turn, were me.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Morning Edition
During breakfast the frequency
of starting diminished, and
in my palm lay a grain of the stars,
as if your deserts could produce
sun enough to illumine
the civilizations that stain
my napkin.
All the stories are the same
by Vico’s estimation,
and I’m losing interest in
the words describing our machine.
In the paper it
was endless war; the stories
of peoples who will never know
the soil of a place not bloodied
by the acts of war.
It was the coffee; the roof beam;
the transient smile of the table
where Earth lay naked
as a slattern and keened
her broken-tooth love,
not having to explain.
Unlike us, she is unmotivated.
Spread-eagle and smiling.
Setting out still, you and I
indulge these insipid epics;
on the Homeric plates, the meal.
Author bio:
John Kuligowski currently lives in the midwest. He has previously been published in Blind Man's Rainbow.
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