Saturday, November 1, 2014

Peter Ciccariello



Lovecraft’s Litany

“I never can be tied to raw, new things...”
Howard Phillips Lovecraft

I am the drops of rain against your face the arctic wind brushed with ice the ochre leaves stuck to the pavement the smashed acorns the living souls of manic squirrels the capricious caw of invisible crows swarming the Gingkos and Oaks the bloodless granite the pocked white marble the ancient verdigris the twisted iron the rusted gate the crumbling Georgian bricks the chalky mortar I am this necropolis I am the silence that surrounds the seeker I am the shadow that flits across the path the blink of an eye the weight in a heart the tremor in the fingers the haunting darkened strolls the empty streets I am the missing chair the “flight of steps with iron rail” the closing door the candle flame the empty plate the vast green lawn the bucolic boulders the part no one knows the hidden yearnings the fear of self the lost dreams the watery blood the weak grip the frail heart the faltering voice the still water one tiny seven-pointed maple leaf the bubbling grief

O the failure
O the failure
O the drops of water in the lungs
O the iron clouds and the nephritic kidneys

The endless blue sky

The single missed chance
This eternal Bardo of swans

I am the train that never comes
The lost white bones
I am the voice that will not speak

“I am Providence”

© Peter Ciccariello


© Peter Ciccariello

The rain of everyone being

silver drops hitting the steel roof
smashing cold and shattered against our faces
spraying its loop of smaller drops
then loops of smaller drops
her eyes lost in the darkness
of the smallest drops
this night embracing us gently
this rain clinking on the metal sky
slopping on the blacktop
this faint smell of sea water
wafting in over the rise of the moraine
this darkness like a thick black rug
pulled over the sky
her eyes the clearest brightest blue
her arms around my neck
my face against her cheek
the rain filming down between our bodies
the river of her lips
it is raining everywhere
this rain holding the sea
this woman holding me
our flesh pulls apart
thousands of tiny cells in innocent pain
our living intelligence
furtively glancing around
the web of connections
rapidly forming
in the spaces left
where we were
only moments before

© Peter Ciccariello


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