Tommy Ingberg
By
Peter Magliocco
in other words
There are times when it’s best
to turn from the cold winds
of inhospitable fortune.
Looking for true meaning
in the eye of the storm
might not be a good idea,
& there are too many hurricanes
just as there are too many
senseless words shouted out
each & every day
into the teeth of the ordinary
morning maelstrom …
Are a million curses more obscene
than one text photo
of bombed hospital victims
in Afghanistan?
Nothing is truly sacred
or repulsive any longer
in a world of trepanned
attention spans & dead muses
on the electronic half-shell
of your muted mobile cell.
Can you still hear the ring-tones
they’re waiting for, on Mars,
Mr. Trump?
Ghost Voyeur’s Dance
Reshaping the world with gyrating feet
until the crowning dawn squeezes
slow light past shadow,
he dances nude
in some aboriginal ecstasy
police fail to understand.
He dances at midnight on the Vegas Strip
for tourists capturing his cellular image
fuzzily emblazoned within neon
multi-colored lights
his shut voyeuristic eyes fail to register.
His resurrection from a nearby street
spins beyond crude hip-hop dances
on the memory mind drugs of choice;
his genitals flop as fools gold nuggets
before the lights blink out everywhere,
before Tupac’s tongue emerges
in moonlight to sing again
as a disembodied snake mamba:
“all life is a gangsta love shot
for the last shadow of light REBORN …”
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