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?
...

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

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,
...

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.
...

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

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

What does Timbuktu mean to you?
Is it a tired cliché of somewhere far, far away?
Is it like nothing you know, just plain peculiar, something to ignore?
...

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.
...

What constellation,
what stardust fireworks,
what dying star, black hole,
what light travels
...

Let dreams arise and keep them afloat.
Nothing's sadder than demise of hope.

Seeds matter, and so we search for the good ones.
...

The squared shifting segmented neon lines
slash a clock up on the cinderblock wall
as time dwindles toward zero its last fragments.
...

Grounder to second.
Finger points to scoreboard.
Explanation of an E.
...

Crammed school gymnasium,
rowdy partisans.
Two young men,
merely boys,
...

By day, above all the summer waves, my toes point up. And in the haze, it's there. Yet another one.

My big fat toe stretches and touches it, follows the scratch above sea. It's where I now stare as it moves inch by slow inch.
...

this ride clicks
and clacks distant boardwalk song
to grinding grins
smear
...