Previous Feature: Ben Nardolilli
Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in The 22 Magazine, Danse Macabre, Elimae, fwriction, Inwood Indiana, The Minetta Review, Pear Noir, Perigee Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Red Fez, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com, and is looking to publish a novel.
Others say we’re dirty, we don’t care,
We’re just a pair of precarious sprites covered
In the universe’s dark offerings,
Leftovers of the shadows other planets
And stars don’t bother orbiting back to pick up
The critics say we’re not even coordinated
As we show off our black and brown costumes
Spackled and molted with puce,
A patchwork dream of the city’s blind alleys,
It helps us to pulse against their bright pink world
They say we’re terrible acrobats without a net,
Dancers coached by an imp choreographer
Guided by a rubber band symphony,
They see us as an obstacle full of laughter,
A traveling circus that celebrates falling down
Then we went down to the ship
to ride the waves with a little bit of rowing,
and once out at sea,
to practice a little bit of sailing
yet we never got the chance
to make use of the labors
of our pale and yet to be cracked hands
or the currents of the ocean
a man at the wheel
of the rapidly listing vehicle
pushed a button and pulled a throttle
to bring a vicious engine out of its steel cage
he propelled us forward,
christening those of us down in the galley
as passengers, unable to work
and capture the benefit of the wind
Unemployed on a Late Winter Afternoon
Waking under the dome
Of everyone’s commute home,
I rise to darkness now
And feel half dead, certainly
Wasted. Why have I not gone out?
There were dreams, but they
Were no destination.
Passed over easy in idleness,
They were a litany easily accomplished.
How am I still so tired?
I suppose I rested
To gain more of the night,
To see more of these dark hours.
Well, here they are.
Waking up to a false sunrise called evening,
What is there to see?
Or to feel? There is a sensation,
Everything still and the air
Resting like an open glove.
I am held with dull fingers
That are ready to grab the horizon.
A wound grows inside.
Struggling for words to pull it up
And cutting as it wiggles its way to get out.
I walk half-drunk with darkness
And cough up letters instead of blood.
Now is the time to write.
All Hail! Ben Nardolilli’s groovy blog, Lo Specchio e La Spugna, includes poetry, politics, and a girlfriend named Sara who digs Wittgenstein. How cool is that? To learn more, click on the header image below . . .