A multi-media artist living near Washington, DC, Jeff Bagato produces poetry and prose as well as electronic music, and glitch video. Some of his poetry has appeared in Empty Mirror, Futures Trading, In Between Hangovers, Otoliths, Your One Phone Call, and Zoomoozophone Review. His published books include Savage Magic (poetry), Cthulhu Limericks (poetry), The Toothpick Fairy (fiction), and Dishwasher on Mars (fiction). A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found at http://jeffbagato.wordpress.com.
Atlantic Sound
What you come for, six hours driving,
is to sit on a couch at 10:00 pm
with the windows open—
listen to the waves
like Hollywood pyrotechnics in slow motion,
like a lion roaring death underwater,
like the blast of a freezer seal breaking,
like the world ending piece by piece,
like a hose scrubbing the
mind—like the washing out
of the ball turret gunner
after a lifetime’s war
with commodity
A clean, clear sound
and the smell of a world
going mad
at
last
A lifetime here—
you can see
why the pirates liked
to die young
Nothing to hold
on
and nothing
to hold
Come Another Sun
Go wild! Let leaves in,
drinking sun and glowing bright
against the thick mist of morning—
Mulch smell and fungus dew
fill up the skull and make clear
visions of earth
The sky does not unfold; it shudders
above flickering branches,
fanned with green hands and oval fingers
Flicker
&
Flicker
colors explode:
populated worlds rush with fairies;
turbaned wanderers in flowing
white and purple gowns;
Kurosawa battles—
crowded movement of flashing swords;
Turkish market of reds and golds, wailing
prayers, haggling with god—
All moving further backward as a fractal
map woven in tufts of wool—
calm quiet of flowering
dogwoods and redbuds and
one tulip poplar rising
in the 5 a.m. half dark
A raccoon crawls lopsided
across the backyard
and licks dew
from the yellow plastic plane
of a toy picnic table,
satisfied and free
Atlantic Sound
What you come for, six hours driving,
is to sit on a couch at 10:00 pm
with the windows open—
listen to the waves
like Hollywood pyrotechnics in slow motion,
like a lion roaring death underwater,
like the blast of a freezer seal breaking,
like the world ending piece by piece,
like a hose scrubbing the
mind—like the washing out
of the ball turret gunner
after a lifetime’s war
with commodity
A clean, clear sound
and the smell of a world
going mad
at
last
A lifetime here—
you can see
why the pirates liked
to die young
Nothing to hold
on
and nothing
to hold
Come Another Sun
Go wild! Let leaves in,
drinking sun and glowing bright
against the thick mist of morning—
Mulch smell and fungus dew
fill up the skull and make clear
visions of earth
The sky does not unfold; it shudders
above flickering branches,
fanned with green hands and oval fingers
Flicker
&
Flicker
colors explode:
populated worlds rush with fairies;
turbaned wanderers in flowing
white and purple gowns;
Kurosawa battles—
crowded movement of flashing swords;
Turkish market of reds and golds, wailing
prayers, haggling with god—
All moving further backward as a fractal
map woven in tufts of wool—
calm quiet of flowering
dogwoods and redbuds and
one tulip poplar rising
in the 5 a.m. half dark
A raccoon crawls lopsided
across the backyard
and licks dew
from the yellow plastic plane
of a toy picnic table,
satisfied and free
Jeff Bagato
