Sunday, August 4, 2013

Three Poems by Jason Visconti

What I Found At The Dead End

Nothing really stops--
Permanence is a sort of short way out--

The heart's startled brakes
Stall for a gasp of air

A lifetime in cement
Is a stunt of acrobatics--

Each lethal stone a white cloud in the sky.

Who Says I Want To Write?

The parable has a fuzzy breath
And the hymn stops on its prompt--

The rage of my compass
Rolls round and round like a terrored eyeball

And even the faith in my garden stinks like a rotten wreath.

I Practiced Being An Angel And I Failed

Curse those wings--
That's not what I said

I loved them
Like pure good--

An expert cut of gold:
Nothing faulty

It was I who couldn't see--
Or swim

Or fly.

Jason Visconti is currently pursuing a certificate in computerized accounting. He has been published in journals including "The Boston Review", "Orange Room Review", and "Indigo Rising".  He enjoys reading the poetry of Billy Collins and Sharon Olds.

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