If only I had some antidote to this loneliness
that fly on the window wouldn't appear gross
me so insolent amid my transpired aspirations
sanctified into a fine mist I wished once when
lost in the rapacious happenstance of relevance
you danced with an invisible universe I sliced
with my switchblade at the behest of Pharoah
whose treasures were loaded into crystal ships
arrogant my restraint that I defended yesterday
its prenuptial nature born from bloody thunder
patently distrustful since the world is involved
in uses my eyes won't capture any time soon
so popular to the crowd that populates heaven
gladly cooing upon the interjection of comets
mine are stones regurgitated from orange soil
while walled in a globe and going backwards
rightly acquitted because the jury ate sausage
my whole self feeling uptight about crucifixes
enter stylish genies on skates mending fences
and not a chance to locate the images I wooed
they occurring albeit not quite at this moment
my reverence for the sun inherently delightful
decoupling love to bury it in a pit of resistance
unhooked this shredded cabal-driven existence
you don't know and will never even care about
such that east by north the merging rivers flow
without a single care to detail their integration

Insoluble Mirage

Reaching the regal nonesuch came aflutter
swarms of wasps crying out for his mother.
Excitants wafted everywhere to my delight
of course since I wasn’t in a mood to fight.
Rent from a deathly intangible I’d deplore
the dusty elf at leisure upon a golden shore.
He handed over a brain of clay then left me
sitting on a field of pink flame plenty teary.
What meretricious waves swept past I dare
say couldn’t be detected unless the despair
reach some animated nadir beyond my ken
which would render me clueless as to when
repentance for the forgetfulness I admitted
fruitfully emerged on a path since remitted
to the multitude of tides and effervescence
a world wherein any mindful resplendence
be impossible and so decision a new thing
popped into my mind as an innate tinkling.
Then trepidation of a nation fallen so sadly
air impregnated with almost every malady
known before or after man tread our planet
tangled in an atmosphere grinding granite
to build flimsy castles and rational dreams
that would reel off their mystical streams.
You speed demon boiling up the interstate
you’re nothing more than an old reprobate
irrupted by addiction to perpetual blunder
a scant psychism amid tumultuous thunder.
When the king kissed his queen she dipped
her lip onto the cup of sins then he flipped
his wig which was conjoined by a neutrino
ferried forth on anthracite wings incognito.

Tangerine Sun

For André Breton

High upon a cloud that bobs with drones in its hair
a myopic cow visits futuristic castles and museums,
there to entertain the hysterical griffins and hydras
while I in my emerald cape slink down a manhole
into a molten-rock river, then an ocean of mercury.
Unraveling diversely, a perpetual pterodactyl prays
for the resurrection and ascension of slain gorillas.
Whoever ignores Iceland will probe a steep chasm
that's booby-trapped, set for the ultimate sacrifice.
Admittedly the trains and planes and automobiles
you contact on the road to Calais should be ridden
with cheer, as orioles soar like Icarus, never to fail.
Anesthetized, I'm comforted by songs in my head
and find merriment therein despite all of the decay.
Riding on the back of an antelope you'd encounter
a tangible thought driven into you like a rusty nail.
Lacking any inspiration does solitude invade, like
daisies in a frozen field buried by layers of red ice.
Hail the light strung along a clothesline some poet
dragged through a Sahara of woe and beyond luck.
Maybe doesn't compute because of acid rain stuck
between this idea and the middle tooth of a reptile.
Mandarin sunset, sliced finger and a managed soul
like yesterday's breakfast are today almost pristine.
So now cypress trees and cisterns go wandering off,
which you take for granted but only if love is likely.
Raspberry dessert, I revel in your manifest anarchy.
Rough-hewn breath instant as unearthed arrows you
like a black dove hover over my heart, injecting me
with penicillin, and banana scent that's oh so sweet.
A plethora of doubt intrudes, muscular and bullying
whenever I yawn, bored to tears yet worrying about
the apocalypse falling on my head as scorched ash.
Never mind says the trollop scouring craven streets
where sacrilege and alms greet pilgrims to nirvana.
It's said in scriptures do unto others what you want.
I wrote that a few days ago while bathing beneath
a purple sky. Rapidly erased from memory parades
a quorum of senators wrapped in gold tunics, to be
saluted by the jackals devout in belief that faith aids
not reverse osmosis, nor includes concrete elements.

About the Author

Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His poetry has appeared in such publications as Poetry Quarterly, Literature Today, Poetry Salzburg, South African Literary Journal, Modern Literature, and others. His books of poetry are Ballad of Billy the Kid, Monterey Bay Adventures, Mercurial World, and Aurora California.