michael pacholski Poems
|1.||Maps, Travels, Contours||7/30/2007|
|2.||To A Statue||7/30/2007|
|4.||Goodbye To The Bakery||11/2/2007|
|8.||The Kitchen Failure||9/16/2007|
|12.||An Instant Of Pie||6/11/2007|
|13.||The Innocent Louse||6/16/2007|
|15.||Ode To Lamps And Light||6/23/2007|
|16.||Ritualo De Lo Habitual||7/30/2007|
Comments about michael pacholski
I should write one more poem for April
and one more for the rain while there is still
something called rain
because it might vanish, the philosophers say,
and there are no promises of more.
The month is almost done
another minute gone and spent.
Lately I have been dreaming
of everything I haven’t done yet -
hills not climbed and lovers not kissed
minds not probed and strangers left untended
and cold in their gray metal park beds
the sciences I do not know
people whose eyes I don’t meet and will never see
a hand not shaken is a remaining ...
So many chances, so many lost opportunities.
My hair cannot possibly get grayer, my fortune-lines sink lower, my love lines stop shorter.
At the end of the song I am whistling,
there is a certain chance I will turn to hear a distant smoky horn -
not a bellow but neither will it be a whimper.
There will be time for me to step off the road
before the black collector's truck rushes past.
He will miss me on this circuit but who knows about the next.