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Poetry by Tom Pescatore

Nightlife of the Living Dead
Nothing Ages
Why the Agents Never Called
My Distended Universe
Published January 7, 2017
Eleventh Transmission.
Eleventh Transmission: Poetry by Tom Pescatore
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walk to the edge of our
information flow
port in//illusory//point out
banks bend just beyond
your archaic sight,
rushing god knows where,
beyond the fold of
cyber-time, locked
on the right bottom
corner of your software eye,
imagine an endless
waterfall of numbers
surface tension
shark blackness
covered up tearing
at the sinew of relative
computed reality
a system without heads
or tails, there is no opposition
to techno-organic process,
are you riverrun to
ouroboro fiberoptic
veins tied in figure 8s
bent to Mobius strip lights
this sigil stretching across
internet space touching all flesh,
consuming all parallel lives?

Have you hit Y/N to proceed?

Nightlife of the Living Dead

Home from offices
bordered by the sky,
sated with daylight & time.

Home to dinner in plastic containers,
cooked someplace faraway
and heated with radiation.

Home to television screens,
lights in the darkness burn bright
before a shower and sleep.

Home as the stopping post,
save those little crumbling,
pieces of life for next weekend.

Home to see those ghosts
of present and past decay,
appearing in the future aged.

Home as night life of your living dead,
hollow eyes and holy heads,
waking up in someone else's tomorrow,

Only to go back to bed.

Nothing Ages

From many sides and pieces
we move like refracted light
in transparent spaces

between now and
future past perfect tense
an arrangement of letter
into word obituary likeness;

now, then! only this remains.

Something that was said, immortalized,
can be forgotten,

this is easy and often happens.

There is no other way.
We must force tho we rage,
we must access the tumble
and smoothing aspects of time
accept loss, accept being lost.

In one hundred years
there will be no memory
of us having walked the
earth, there will be no flowers
to mourn,

there will be nothing to hold on to.

Why the Agents Never Called

Because you had frightened them
with suicide letters, fingers on the button,
on the bomb, strange musing cat-like noises
in the alleyways of thought between the lines,
weighted down by hello how are you good, good,
pressure, those fairy tale facilities, buried like
corded veins in the soft prosaic grounds,
preconditioned bits of regurgitated information
twisting like useless narrative going back over,
afterwards, in-between, telling the same old
same old tv serial scene, not knowing how to
lie, how to hide your sadness, deafness,
frown, because you cried for what was lost
and gave innocently, naively of yourself.

My Distended Universe

From out-through-inward
glances I am walking picture
health, red eyes, not-yet-
so-sagging-skin, not-yet-so-
showing-my-age, a perfect
asked for shell encased
humanity-bubble, walking to
work, walking to the grave,
showing smiles when prompted,
answering back hellos, body
breaking down nobly, mind
stitched together with tv show
highlights, news snippets, party lines,
I have made an effort to appear
unremarkable, to remain unnecessary
a blink of a cog in the great machine
mind civilization, fitfully prepared
for what's expected of me.

Tom Pescatore can sometimes be seen wandering along the Walt Whitman
bridge or down the sidewalks of Philadelphia's old Skid Row. He might have
left a poem or two behind to mark his trail. He maintains a poetry blog: Tom writes from Secane, Pennsylvania.
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