September 2002 / Volume Three / Issue One
NOTE: This poem is divided into 2 parts. Click ">" at the bottom of the page to access the next.
Paul Skyrm
Terrors of the In Between

Ambling within beech tree bouquet
        shrouded nomads towering into oblivion
                                 harmonizing bagpipe kaddish
         behind mama & papa’s
cathedral hilltop liberation smoke house gleaming,
I stare up finding shade & shadow break through heliotropic branches
         and fall into shoka  ikebana
                      leaving space for the dead to drink,
         the living to starve at supper table.

Amongst crazy wise brush  broken shells 
stale coyote shit hardened to gallstone  twigs  berries
          I find fox mortise-and-tenon skull
        free of flesh void of coarse nectarine coat
          overturned by stump silver prayer bowl over-flowing kernels

O! wont you nibble buck?
O! wont you suckle doe?

Howling wolf moon red-eyed marauder
salivating burnt blood
                                     rears in Western sky

skull in hands  flesh holding bone 
       Buddha free fall through vacant parking lot
          saturated with rain fog settling out upon no-thing.

Hollowness where fox eyes saw good dreams 
buck toothed hares scurrying in the between;
life & death  razor canines & loose meat tongue

All around shrieks & howls,
  empty bellies scouring dimly lit world for wounded gazelles
         broken bison  summer sun
cardinal flying too low above ground


All around hunters prowling four-legged 
hunters scavenging wings spread mountain range
         circling overhead

All around weeping & slobbering wails
my mother knelt at hunter green marble two-body
         stepback urn,  gold nameplates translating void 

Santo Anthony Giampapa
Carey Grant paisanorth Boston
hipster son of Sicily immigrant cousins Alfonso & Rosalie
locked in youthful embrace

O! where blue overalls worn white
smell of old hot Monza motor oil,
white curdled butcher coat stained with blood of lamb!

Rose Norma Caporale Giampapa
She who passed by her window  morning yawn
all downtown boys squawking,
Jane Russell took residence in Michael & Jenny’s
Tapley Square south side parlor
O! where blackened lungs are broken angel wings 
breath is the exploration & you need not
wheeze in second story window
peeing into plastic bag chaffed by tube!
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