"Solitude"  Copyright 2000 Dianne Poinski



The rancid sky
The frail cobweb
The peeling paint
The patient spider
The good book
The hard cock
The naked bulb-

All I know of God
As I enter and re-enter
This prayer.

Down in the Village

Too-the rats snort
Their own kind
Of nirvana
In the tunnel
To the sad places
Behind my eyes,
Yon Golgothas
Fresh with new crosses
Eager to redeem
Fallen humanity.

The discarded bags
Of chips,
And the busted roaches
Of the perpetually
Know the tedium,
The noble toil
Of my closet ascetics
The moment
I set them free.


She would take it all in,
She would:
The babe and its nostrils,
Under the skunk moon
And the pie-eyed stars,
But I hold her in my niche
Whispering psalms,
Whispering psalms.

Fata Morgana

When I see them
I never doubt it,
Though the eyes,
The mortal eyes
Have visions
Mocked by faith.

Sad Old Song

A bird
Sable as the heart
On Sunday,

Landed on
My right thumb
The moment
I climbed
Above despair,

Then turned
Into a peacock,
Rainbow pigeon

When I switched
On the fan.

Rings, Bands, Crosses

They sought brevity,
Fresh images.

So they hung a pygmy
From their nostrils,
Lips, chins, nipples.

From anything
But their

Nowhere At Dawn

The star climbed over the edge,
But lacked subtlety,
Blazing like an overdose of salt
In the wound of time.

The bones of our ancestors
Sank deeper
Into our bowels
And no longer
Appeared in our dreams.

But we lay stranded,
Tethered to a hope,
Begging for more.

Leo Yankevich copyright 2000

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