Joe Bisicchia

There is likely hesitation,
but he takes the cross.

A voice can only say so much.
...

Having mastered complexities of math, science, and alphabet,
all that education now comes down to this:
affixing one and one together late on Christmas Eve,
hooking up latest kids' gadgets with no sense of ease.
...

And what awaits to be seen,
faraway as sky,
close by as the backyard,
ever closer to the heart?
...

My face to the morning mist,
again I misplace what I could see,
my little sailboat of dreams,
out there so close it had seemed,
...

And my arteries run;
they race with the streets,
my depth chasing the lines underneath,
my arms chasing my dreams.
...

We felt her voice lift joyous from that deathbed.
She wasn't a poet; but was. Her last poem: her final breath.
It left without a word, as if the most peaceful sound ever said.
And we wept.
...

face, face, face, face, face.
face, face, face, face, face, face, You.
face, face, face, face, face.
...

Rocks have personalities
I think
maybe.
Got to get to know them.
...

I am speed.

I want
to run
...

We see each other.
Ball bounces.

Busy world
...

In the mirage,
in sun's bending of street,
when the racing stripe
...

Window would see
world
if eyes weren't stuck
bedside.
...

You love me.

All of me.
Despite the parts that are not me.
...

More than ink.
See

more than a one side sheet.
...

Hope
has a way of texture,
has a way of deep import
...

There's a foot high ceramic fisherman
at my window sill, hand on a ship's wheel.
No sea to see, but he looks out to the rising sun.
I like to think, quite the catch.
...

We sit and try to talk.
Paradise is down the hall,
far beyond the exit door.
Pineapple had traveled
...

We live aside rivers in time,
never forever frozen as if ice.
Images and photographs are left.
We're much more than that.
...

They cut the fog like ghosts
amidst ghosts.
Their lives are lived too fast
to accurately photograph.
...

Parched
jar,
just clay.
...