Poetry by Joe Bisicchia

Wanting Right on Red
 
At next intersection I stop to wait yet again. To the left I see the pump of the gas station, the
hearse stomaching its fill, backdropped by the retention pond of piranha. Here I am, yes, stopped
yet again, blood draining like drives of days and the long waits as if I am made, and made again
rigor mortis over and over, no end.
 
And then a flatbed truck of trees, Birnam Landscaping, makes the opposing green my left to
right. Are we all on our way to Dunsinane? Are we all running from the dead?
 
There is not much escaping, even in the waiting. Tomorrow, tomorrow, I shall plant red roses.
But, now, now, I feel the blood rush from my whitened knuckles on the wheel, and listen to hear
myself breathe.




Stuck at a Really Long Red Light
 
Sometimes seems we’re stuck at a stop forever. Yet, can still dream. So it is, we can see forever
by just being at rest and maybe forever is much more than the eventual green. Seems that a
man’s ties, often times, in shades of the same color can clash, while those of different palette can
handsomely contrast. Lots to see in that.
 
We all may want to box things up in a perfect easy to follow erudite bow. Rabbit, run--
alliteration. Clock as a silent Samurai suddenly spinning swords—personification, with
alliteration. But Time passes and it can be wordless for even an English teacher.
 
See, this is the thing. Even this thingamabob, thingumajig, commodity of sorts, this apparatus,
contrivance, this configuration, oddity of last resorts, this mechanism of great means, this tool,
this reservoir in reams, this beloved belonging, this everything in a way that is yet just another
awesome thesaurus in the glove compartment of my mind, can’t properly define time.
 
Unlike the dinosaur, the rat, a connoisseur of sewers will figure a way to last simply by just
being a rat, nimble and fast, and willing to be in places everyone else runs from fast. Time
similarly moves. Bide time. Wait. But don’t think it’ll stand still. When it seems to, well, it’s only
waiting to test your will. A temporary disguise. Time is that way wise, at the gate, like a rodeo
bull. Then arrrummpph-arumph-rumph!
 
So it goes, this life everyone knows. When it comes down to it, though, not really quite sure what
it all may mean. Time to go. Light has finally turned green.




Parkway
 
Hope you open my heart like a car and drive us so very far but never leave home. Ever since
Adam moved about naming, so do we. And it is not so much for simplifying like left or right,
south or east. It is for magnifying, so that this design for the world might drive meaning.
 
And we move, more than just a Mustang, or a Barracuda, or a Colt. A world moves. Seems this
latest conveyance, which has been made to keep pace, now honors the maker in evidence just the
same, even if forgotten as a name, from Ford to Buick to Chevrolet, and on. So much is
forgotten.
 
Hope you open my heart like a car, and know my maker. Know my start. And then, regarding all
names may they not eventually dissipate every nameless me to every nameless you, but rather
may we share the way and know it not so much as what we are, but who.

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Bio: Joe Bisicchia writes of our shared dynamic. An Honorable Mention recipient for the Fernando Rielo XXXII World Prize for Mystical Poetry, his works have appeared in various publications. His website is www.widewide.world.