Thorns Upon The Alien Corn — David Kowalczyk

Here, in the city of jazz,

the tigers in my dreams

weep neon tears.

I awaken each morning

to the soft moans and

murmurings of the restless dead.

Fine hard snow falls upon the city.

The world strikes

a single note:

C flat.

This has nothing

to do with sex,

or the Kabbalah,

or the nature

of irrational numbers.

Filed under: David Kowalczyk, Issue 3

Poem For A Balding Ballerina — David Kowalczyk

Some fall apart

too soon.

She is lost,

unable to be found

on any map.

Her pain is so deep

it has become contagious.

She will spend this morning

staring out the window,

counting all the miracles

in paradise.

In a previous life,

she was a sea creature

drawing strength and power

from the salty depths

of the ocean.

Now, she is drowning

in the past, in a ceaseless stream

of spilt wine.

Her face is a dream

buried in shadow,

and her heart . . .

Filed under: David Kowalczyk, Issue 3, David Kowalczyk