Attic, After Funeral

Twisted and flattened

like old dogs
on desert roads,
a purple orchid
resting in the pages
of Great Expectations
still smells of old water
and mothers perfume.

thomas graziano

Yellow
In the last aisle of the supermarket in
the little town far from home,
tiny lights hiss and boo through yellowing plastic,
signaling to geriatrics at the pharmacy
and spit soaked toddlers holding grandpas hand that
Im finally out of money.
Our front door never shut quietly.
My lover stays up all night wishing texts to
a mossy brick on a dirt road near Omaha
hurled from the passenger side window
of the 95 Neon searing salt into
Goodyear rubber under hole-socked feet and
puking smog into the balmy air
my broiled brain will not occupy again,
away from Moms alcoholism and Dads sheepish drivel.
Our front door never shut quietly.
My final forty dollars grossed on humid nights
saw street corners and strangers before it trickled
through cracks in the gas tank and hit scorched tarmac
at murderous speed, like breadcrumbs left
to find my way home through forests thicker than
the blood on our familys linoleum floors.
Our front door never shut quietly.
[thomas graziano]

Fools Gold

Take sticks and birch bark in your greasy palm,

And stack them atop the frenzied dancing.
Take pills and poison, for visceral calm
Will abscond and lock legs with your panting.

Bandeaus and black lakes, tickled ears, hushed sex,

Below cosmos like granite countertops,
Immovable us, victims of a hex
Which stirs our freckled broth til the flames stop.

Gravel and dust stick to our rosy feet

As we crunch home, ears wiped dry with dark rum.
Your habanero skin still flushed with sweet,
Nights indigo milk on your bosom.

Gods wooded cathedral shudders and moans

When toes curl and bones lay down upon bones.

[thomas graziano]

Bachelors Evening

From atop the highest

vertebrae I see hills, small and large and
an old damp well but no
boats parked in leather docks strung
with shoelaces as blistered fingernails
struggle to anchor denim slits to stubby silver bollards.

I whisper daggers through boiled

breaths which steam coarse shrubbery
off the cliff roads of collarbone and
rib, my back sinuous like scorpions
pulling apart
a dung beetle, and I rip a belt loop.

How its possible these pipes,

these forks, these teepees of
stitch and stain could possibly defect to
pelican stockings turns my scalp to brine
soaked bulwarks and I, exhausted upon splintered sunset
fasten my hammock over a plot of brunette Kalkaska soil.

The button is a slug

fired by an exhale and gravity and the

mossy hill, out the plane glass horizon into

the street where a bum swallows
whole peanut M&Ms bought with Onion
sales and pity from yuppies in Prada wool.

A ghost of a knocking door

returns my focus indoors to
cushion-less couches felted with spliff ash
and breadcrumbs and other neglected
scenes from weeks past, all forgotten like
midday reveries of coastal towns and salt battered winds.

Theres nobody in the peephole.

The leaves are turning gold.

[thomas graziano]

Lungs
The man with a million lungs sits down on the end of his tractor tire

With one foot perched on a peach basket and rolls

Loose leaf cigarettes.
In his pachyderm hands lie
Slender creases littered with coarse tobacco and the loud
Perfume of Istanbul.
He picks a hot coal off the fire and dabs at his pleasure delicately.
The horizon resembles wet black paint.

The man with a million lungs makes eye contact with the ruby
That glows Arizona red in protest but
He just flicks his thumb twice and blinks.
He breathes deep and hums Golden Years
Until his breath runs
Out in absolution. Doubled over on all fours he
Bunches up hay in his fists. His sternum separates
Like Rolls Royce doors as two charcoal sponges drop to the clay.

The man with a million lungs rises sure as the tide and flings
The peppered ham steaks ten yards at the family dumpster but
one falls short and tumbles up against the rear wheel.
He trudges to the silo built by his Father on
That hot summer day no one ever forgot or got tired of talking about.
Inside, a cling wrapped heap of organs await their turn to char.
He lifts a pink pair off the corner to inspect, and wonders
Which will run out first.

Thomas Graziano

Student Teacher
Oh Jesus, sum the jive.
Been here one spring, not long enough
To saunter in and rap the hour on a unicycle.
He pleads, calls, barks to us like baby blue jays.
Feed me. Keep me aroused.

Oh Lord, put us out of misery.

Let his deluge of uhhs and errs
Be the shrapnel once pointed at Barbaros long face.
His thoughts, notes, legs; all broken now.
A cold droplet eats down to his chin.

Oh friends, lock the door.

You! Out! Window! Help!
White hot confusion drizzles through holes in the ceiling and
Burns through the floor.
The Amistad sinks with nary a whisper.

Thomas Graziano