John A. Mangini Jr. | home
Poetry
I Now Know
What gloom
does rise
fast
and
pervious
along the waters
waters of
canvas colored
ashes
swish
between toes
aloof
not know
dusk
and
dawn
set clear
as a
vanishing
bird
a waving magic wand
wondering
wonderment
among the furrow
backdrop
draped
along
merriment
in luscious
lares
of undergarment
paintings
on the ceiling
chapel
setting free
along the
Cistine tree
of tormented glee
pressing
down
a tiny
tiny
seed
tiny seed
into the ground
soft
grands
of
sand
filter out
the sun
lie fine
conjuring
high
mountains
on a ground
of crystal
dull
standing
ubiquitous
all-seeing
freezing
cool
atop
snow covered
dunes
through
lasting
glades
of
glass.
The Room
The room
was cold and damp
swamp-like;
coke
and
weed
and
alcohol,
whores wanting to get high--
anything to get high,
blackened skin under eyes,
floppy tits dangling-- bra-less,
faces stone as zombies--
numb as thumbprints on the skin.
Lonesome
I search
to find
nothing
but
Pennsylvania
January
dangling
icicles
from my door
while the piano
plays jazz
and
the mail man
delivers scrap
and
retired men
dressed in
fury hats
walk dogs
through my
frozen
gray
yard
leaving me
to the
entertainment
of feces
smoking
grass.
III
I love to close my eyes
late at night and imagine
I live in a collage of jazz,
buried between photographs
of New York City 1950
black and white club scenes
of cigarettes and clouded smoke,
songstresses and lone microphones,
shiny brass and ivory
and black folk in felt fedoras
calling me Cat.
I Slept with Anger
I remember the night we met
at my house with cigarettes
and liquor
the candles burned quickly
under the fan
your eyes
inviting
as a whore on Liberty Ave.
Your anger slept with me that night
fists upon my back
bruised the skin that
treated you like a real lady,
recognizing the difference
rage subsided to my
grasp
just holding you
not wanting to let go
as I noticed the Celtic tattoo
wrapped around your upper arm.
Home Alone
Prostrate on the couch I hear the ice
fall,
birds chirp, cars move on, air blows
f r e e l y from the vents and boredom
sets in. R m a t thoughts a p n
control my brain
what I must do.
Thinking back
to childhood,
the time I had
to reflect,
the simple ways
I entertained myself.
Now I sit blank in my tee - shirt
and sweats pondering the absences,
voids to fill;
how depressing
still air sits.
Faint signs of life outside my window
tell me that I’m breathing,
the calm fucks with me
wishing it would go away -
vanish into day.
L
i
s
t
l
e s s
e n e r g y
s
u
b
s
i
d
e
s,
bored
yet
unmoved
by
life.
Courting Birds
Have you ever heard
two sparrows talking?
come here often?
what’s your sign?
understanding simply
what they’re saying,
X and Y kinda stuff
wondering what the other thinks,
if they’ll shack-up
after a long cool rain.
Pick-up Lines
We are the center of attention,
she’s drunk, I’m drunk, their drunk,
twenty dollars a round makes it hard
but we get by.
We are all friends, acquaintances and strangers.
Who needs a shot?
As if need has anything to do with it.
Or maybe.
She blows cigarette smoke in my face
and I, in her eyes, blow smoke of a thousand rote lies.
