John M. FitzGerald
John M. FitzGerald Poems
As for the talking,
if I wanted something said,
it would be here.
...
Joe Smith takes a pickle jar and latex gloves
From under the kitchen sink, and sits at the workbench
In the tool shed outside his father’s house.
He dons the gloves, empties poison from six livestock collars
...
I would be one of the wanderers,
with heaven watching.
Observe, you reflections, I glance away.
...
Joe Smith works at the Spring Water Plant, in Tacoma.
All his life, everyone called him Joe Smith.
Never just Joe.
It makes him feel generic.
...
I hardly sleep because of dreams.
They don’t become me, and could be obsessions,
Depending on whether it’s day or night.
Visions seem incompatible as birds and windows.
...
Now, I stare into emptiness,
alone enough for poetry,
alone enough for even me,
alone requiring mention of passing.
...
I like theme songs that get to the point.
Gilligan’s Island told a tale;
I don’t want to hear a tale.
You’re stranded, that’s that.
...
He is the man you saw sitting at the bus stop,
His elbows on his knees,
Arms like pillars propping up his noggin,
Hands in a V, with his chin in the angle,
...
John M. FitzGerald Biography
J.M. FitzGerald is a writer/attorney in Los Angeles. He represents the disabled by day, but at night, represents the darkness. He attended UCLA and the University of West Los Angeles School of Law, where he was editor of the Law Review. His first book, Spring Water, the fictional story of the mental life of a psycho bottling plant shipping clerk who poisons bottles of water and ships them to Los Angeles stores, was a Turning Point Books prize selection in 2005. Telling Time by the Shadows, a book of poems of love and longing, was released in April,2008. Unpublished works in progress include Primate, the fictional tale of a sign-language speaking chimp allowed to testify in court, The Zeroth Law, a work of creative literary non-fiction comparing the beliefs of the world’s major religions to history, myth and science, and The Mind, a series of poems about consciousness and thought.)
The Best Poem Of John M. FitzGerald
The Misunderstood
As for the talking,
if I wanted something said,
it would be here.
These lines exist as they do for the falling,
for the unrevealed hurt,
for God to cry and angels fear
at my corruption,
at my shaking,
at my curse.
I need time to get away,
but present demons love me worse,
and figure ways to pose as muses.
They point to where my secrets wither.
They bruise the heights and stir the lows
with longing songs that ever crave to scream:
Let me come back!
No voice is greater than this.
What happened to the blasted silence?
No one should believe I'm real.
I disclaim myself for persona,
or I'd be bawling.
The poem is over,
I used to feel.
But now who knows?
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4/24/2024 11:11:15 PM # 1.0.0.1119
