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Author Archives: marcofreschi

About marcofreschi

I live in the Ocean and write poetry

I’m Coming Home (for the good old boys, for the good old girls)

Marco’s back from paradise,

and he wasn’t even gone so long

Came crashing back through the stratosphere

when he realized where he belonged

They were wondering down on Earth

where the chap had gone,

why he wasn’t chilling in the parking lot

with the good old boys back home

He didn’t bother explaining where he’d been

with the hunger in his heart;

Said, “Hey guys it’s hard to keep afloat

when the world’s pullin you apart!”

They laughed and clowned and pulled his hair,

broke bottles in the Night

(nobody wants to go back home,

we’d all rather just stay outside.)

So the skyline kept us company

Until the morning came,

Then back to the union bosses in daytime,

where the hard reality reigns.

Marco’s back from paradise, and

he knows he did the right thing;

This world’s not done with him yet

He thought to himself

with a wolfish grin.

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El-ahrairah (digger, listener, runner)

I beseech thee

to teach me,

O Prince

with a thousand Enemies,

to use my Animality,

to use my wits and my claws

to set myself

free


growing up

Walking back

down Railroad tracks

with backpacks

full of snacks

in late September,

the cicada drones

bleached elk bones

ice-cream cones

and times alone

made the most magical stories

of all.

 


is there anybody out there? (the Watcher on the Roof)

it’s 2 am again,

and I’m sitting alone on a cold suburban rooftop,

bare toes curled over shingles

thinking thoughts and shooting stars

and keeping silent vigil

Because what if Tonight

is the night?


Flight (my soul is flying, out of Newark, Into the Sky)

(ding)

the fasten seatbelt sign is on.

please put your dining trays up,

and make sure your seat is in the upright position.

Put away and stow all electronic devices.

(dingding.)

My soul is taking flight,

and the pressurized cabin is softly humming.

I’m seated next to a man in a turban with a long tangled beard

and a morbidly obese black woman who reeks of perfume.

Their souls too, are preparing to take flight.

I press my face to the window,

and beyond the wing I see

glowing orange lights in the New Jersey night,

and the odd shaped vehicles that scurry around airyards.

The quiet mumbling of the machines multi-ethnic cargo

is silenced as we roll onto the runway,

the cabin rotating and shifting, making the babies

and small children uneasy.

(ding.)

The hiss of air through those little circular overhead vents

is blowing dry, stale recycled air onto my face.

This is it.

A new world awaits,

Make sure your buckled up.

Suddenly we are roaring like a train,

Screaming down the runway

Aimed at the void.

My bones and my body bounce up and down,

Bumping me against this tired looking Islamic guy

while Newark Liberty Airport rushes by

The plane charges faster

and faster,

It’s not letting up,

Not hesitating for even a moment,

A little Japanese baby has started to cry

the whole cabin is shuddering, jumping up and down,

bouncing souls around in a coach-class purgatory,

Giant steel wings flapping and beating

Hard against the resistance of the mortal world,

Breaking free

From Gravitee

Pushing, running, sprinting,

Jumping

and then

(dingding)

Our souls have left the ground,

we are entering the sky,

and when I look out of the window

over our Angelic host’s great metal shoulder-blades

I begin to cry

(quietly, so that the Muslim guy

sitting next to me

cannot see)

as I shake off my old life,

Sliding it off like a jacket

after being out in the cold…

Below my Soul and Body, the shrinking

twinkling lights

of New Jersey

become a dreamscape in the Night

of dully glowing orange points and minuscule cars

sliding down ink-black rivers of asphalt and pavement,

The New York skyline

cutting into the Night like claws dripped in pitch,

tearing neon gashes bleeding light

and my Soul,

with body in tow,

Heads West to find the Dawn.


Newark, New Jersey (Brick City)

Meet me at Point No-Point,

and be sure to come alone.

We can jump into the river,

That manifestation of the Unknown

and drift like plastic bags

to the Atlantic.


Shoot

Please give a squeeze and let a bullet fly,

For a once in a lifetime chance dances by,

whirling and twirling beautiful hair

and dark eyes.

Please take that Gun

off your forehead and point it elsewhere,

(Because nobody cares

if it only caps you!)

Please roll the dice, and bet all you’ve got

it isn’t too much so what the fuck,

I’ll Give it a shot!

I don’t stand to lose a whole lot,

Just a shattered, battered smashed apart heart

and all my sweet dreams

torn instantly apart.

Please give a squeeze, and let a bullet fly;

if you don’t want to do it,

then why did you load it?

Aim.

Hold it steady now.

Slow down your breathing.

Now…

 

SHOOT


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